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I think now that my body was merely marking another kind of pain. When I got better, I packed a suitcase. I layered my clothes and the diary, her eyelash curler, and the photo of the ” data-disable-toolbar=”true” data-disable-return=”true”>crossing guard. I then waited for the right moment. It arrived when one of my mother’s old boyfriends came by to fix something under the sink. He was a burly, sweaty kind of guy with a truck full of tools. I asked if he could drive me to ” data-disable-toolbar=”true” data-disable-return=”true”>San Francisco.
We lobbed my heavy bag into the back of his truck with all the hammers and old toilets. I didn’t know then that I would write about this day some 25 years later from a bright apartment in ” data-disable-toolbar=”true” data-disable-return=”true”>New York City and still be looking for the mom who watched me from the window. I didn’t know then that her premonition, or her curse, would come true.
What I did know, as my mother’s errant boyfriend and I pulled up in front of my dad’s apartment building, country music blaring from the truck’s windows, was that I wanted some kind of ceremony to make sense of leaving her. I knew, somewhere in my stitched-together gut, that I had just made a choice that would haunt me forever—I had chosen to amputate my mom, and without my lifeblood she would be too sick to love me again.
I had severed myself from myself. I had a sudden and strange fantasy of balloons and banners inside my father’s apartment: a welcome-home party. Something to show me the war had been worth it.
Over the next four years, the pains came at night, when the lowing of the ” data-disable-toolbar=”true” data-disable-return=”true”>foghorns would fold me to sleep. Then I would dream myself back into my old green house. In the dreams, my mother wouldn’t be there. I was alone and terrified. Somebody or something was coming to kill me, and I was afraid I was already dead, because I couldn’t move: My whole sleep self was a phantom limb, locked into the person I had left behind.
Throughout my twenties, I wrote to my mom every four years or so, just to prove that I could. Every time I wrote, a card or a letter would arrive a few weeks later. “I can tell every word was written with the intention to hurt me,” she wrote more than once. When she replied around the time of my birthday, she sent me a card with a clown and balloons meant for a 3-year-old. Twice she misspelled my name. When I sent her a letter to tell her I had graduated from college, she sent me a note on scrap paper saying only “Congratulations. I wish you the best.” The longest letter she wrote was in response to a query I had sent her, asking her to explain what she thought had happened between us and what had transpired in her life to make us so distant and estranged.
She wrote back about her cats and dogs, and about the ghosts who lived in her house—she told me not to worry, as the ghosts were friendly and her yard was pretty. Aside from the graduation note, she always signed off with a warning: I had chosen to leave her, she said, and there was nothing she could do to change that.
After each letter, I simply shut off the mom switch I had briefly toggled on. I didn’t think about her, didn’t talk about her, forced her image back down each time something—a song on the radio, a certain shade of yellow—would sweep me back to childhood, and my blood would seem to rush in reverse. Aside from the spontaneous letters, I did everything I could to forget.
Madness has no logic, and it has terrible timing. One morning, after I decided at age 30 to have a baby, I cracked. I couldn’t leave the bathroom floor. I clung to the toilet and scraped my fingernails against the floor tiles. I leaned my head against the cool porcelain of the bathtub for relief. I was flooded with the smells from my childhood, of frozen Salisbury steak bubbling in the microwave and cut grass from outside. I was terrified that if I left the bathroom, my California hometown, Concord, would be right out the door. I could smell it that clearly. And yet I knew this was crazy. I was terrified I was going crazy.
I didn’t resist a hospital rescue. I knew I was unraveling.
A doctor gave me medicine right away. And then, after I waited for a while in a small room, a tall woman with blond hair walked in. She sat in a chair in front of me and met my eyes. She took my hands.
“Why?” I asked, and started to sob. The therapist’s grip was steady. “Why?” I cried harder, gasping. “Why did my mother molest me?”
It was the first time I’d said it out loud.
After my psychic break, I spent a year in ” data-disable-toolbar=”true” data-disable-return=”true”>Los Angeles in the lower swells of a serious, occasionally suicidal, anxious depression. This yearlong darkness was much more than fallout from articulating a singular abuse. It came from arousing the suspicion of it and wishing my agonies could coalesce around a moment, then finding that they could not.
As a child I was pliant with my mother, skinless for years, and then I left. In my depression, I realized I’d left a still soft self behind, with her. For a long time, I didn’t have language for what had happened in her house.

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