They sort of explain each other.
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Chapter one
There was a lesson that I learned when I was nine. A lesson that later became one the guiding statements of my life. It stuck to me everywhere I went. That lesson was this: not every question mark belongs to a question, and also, not every period belongs to an answer. Sometimes, the period belongs to the question and the question mark belongs to the answer.
Now, I know that last sentence may not make much sense right now, but, in a while, trust me, it will.
You see, my family – no, my life – is one question after another, one cascading into another, snowballing, getting more and more entwined until they are virtually inseparable. And no one possesses any of the answers I seek. So I must unravel them for myself.
Who am I? you so restlessly ask. Well, to be frank, that truly is none of your business. So, please, do not expect me, throughout any part of this accountance – if that is even a word – of my eleventh year, to tell you who I am. I am I and that is that.
***
“Honey, for the last time, stop asking me. You will not get an answer, no ifs, ands, or buts.” This, this is it. This is the exact response I get from mother each and every time that I approach her with this question. Mother never answers any of my questions. Why is that? She’s been this way as long as I can remember. Secluded, isolated, irritated, and unaccepting of curiosity. I never got what most children have: a parent who actually wishes to be involved in their life. Today just happens to be one of those rare days in which mother actually gets up, instead of moping the day away in the dark abyss of her room, shades drawn and all. When I ask her about father, all she tells me is this, “he lived, he died. Now, build a bridge and get over it.” However, the question I just asked her had nothing to do with my father, but had everything to do with my mother. She was only fifteen when I was born, so I just simply ask her, Why? I know that if she had waited, I may not be me – or worse, I may not exist – but could she really not stand to wait? I know that, deep inside, she views me as not a mistake, but the mistake. The one that ruined her life. The one the drove her to look to drugs for comfort. The one that stole her youth. If only she understood how hard I try to make her love me, to accept me curiosity for the world around me.
I walk outside, forcing the tears from my eyes. Mother always tells me that crying is just something people do to gain the attention they so eagerly seek.
Beyond my house, there is a vast, fertile field. The Field of Dreams, as I used to call it. But that was back when I believed in dreams, which are nice when you’re a child, but, as you grow older, you realize that what you dreamed of becoming as a child is just one of those useless little threads that tie you to the world of Santa Clause, The Easter Bunny, fairies, and clouds. A land far above your head, that is irretrievable by any man, woman, or child. When you cut away at the structure and truly get down to the bone, how often do those dreams actually come true? Not as often as we wish. Not as often at all.
Focus, girl. Focus! The three worded command, used in situations such as this. Situations in which my brain loses itself in thoughts that do not – have not ever – belong there. Thoughts no eleven-year-old should have or dwell on. They serve only to taint the well-being and psychological soundness of that person, contorting their mind until they are forced to be loaded into a large, white vehicle, with no windows, with men and women in long white lab coats, to be shipped to the nearest asylum. Or the farthest, whatever makes the parents feel “safer”.
***
By now, you’ve probably noticed that my brain tends to act like a beehive. I have one solid, normal thought – that’s the hive, with all of the little bees safely asleep inside – and I get just the slightest bit into it before all the little buzzers wake up and start to fly out. They all spread out to different regions of my mind, each uncovering other thoughts, sometimes depressingly dark, sometimes ecstatically happy and upbeat. There is a good, medical reason for this, though. So please don’t ask if I’m schizophrenic or the likes, ‘cause I’m not.
Let me tell you how it all went down. A few summers ago, when I was nine, my aunt Rebecca decided that I deserved to spend some time away from home, to get to meet new people. Acting on this thought, she, being rich and all, gathered up a few hundred dollars to send me to this outdoorsy summer camp for a week. Sadly, I never actually got to the camp. On the bus to go there, some kids got real mean and began to throw stuff at the driver. They musta’ also been pretty stupid because they didn’t realize that, with the driver distracted, the bus would get off course and crash. Well, when it did, my head hit the window pretty hard, and broke part of my skull. It was only a little part, luckily. It also messed up my brain a bit, so I have a bit of trouble controlling my thoughts, which torks me off something fierce.
