(Right now, I’m focusing on my memoirist work that I’ll
call, simply, “Pictures of Tommy” -- all about my psychotic brother and his
legacy. If so inclined, please share, and tell me what you think. . . )
So of course, parents back in the day didn’t question
whether Johnny or Mary were feeling good about themselves -- or indeed, whether
they were really learning. I
started feeling bad about myself around the second grade. I went to Catholic school. In between spelling, penmanship, and
learning the “times tables,” we had first Holy Communion classes, where I’d ask
the awkward questions about the sixth commandment: What’s adultery?
The priest answered, “Children don’t need to be concerned
about that.”
I was the sensitive kid who’d cry often and try to hide
it. I was the pudgy girl who sat
in the back, reading, writing, drawing.
My favorite story was about “Sarah and the Adventures of the Ruby Ring,”
which I wrote about a fictitious twelve-year-old, a person I’d longed to be:
smart, thin, self assured, popular with the ghosts in the graveyard.
And then, my big brother had a psychotic episode, wound up
in the hospital, then was transferred to Creedmoor State Hospital -- the
official loony bin of Queens County, New York. My family spoke about it all in angry, hushed tones, leaving
my little sister and me in the dark, confused and hurt.
We saw little of my brother Tom at all from the years I was
in junior high and high school.
Then, in high school, I started hanging out with boys and
getting high. . . which didn’t help matters at all.
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