I stared in the mirror at my gentle features and long blonde hair.
BB, I reflected. You're fucked up for drinking so much.
I thought about the situation and laughed.
You're more fucked up for not eating today.
And that made me feel better. Like, in comparison, the drinking really wasn't that bad. Even though it totally is.
I guess some things don't change, do they? A career doesn't change them. Friends don't change them. Life doesn't change them. Therapy, which goodness knows I need, doesn't change them. Where does that leave good old me? Does it ever go away? Do I ever get better? What does "better" mean?
And is all of this just genetic, or was it done? Was I always going to be crazy, or was I made crazy?
I told on my father once.
I went to a teacher and I let her know.
"He dragged me out of bed and slammed me onto the floor. He hit me and I couldn't breathe."
When he found out that I'd reported him, he told me the authorities were going to take me away to foster care, where I'd be gang raped. Once they were done with me, he said, they'd come for my younger brothers.
I was nine.
And you know, it worked, because I never told again. I don't know. I just don't fucking know.