Eight years ago, I had a conversation so excruciating, mere memory of it causes me to tremble as I perch at rusty floodgates barely holding back a billion more tears.
Eight years ago, my sister, brother-and-law and I sat on my mom’s front porch and urged her to consider voluntary psychiatric commitment.
When I envisioned the summer of 2003, I thought about the joy of being free from law school for three whole months. I imagined all the adventures I’d have with my siblings. Best of all, I pictured the lovely bride my just-younger sister would make on her wedding day.
What I absolutely did not picture as I boarded the Greyhound bus to Oregon was spending a summer watching my mom’s long-time “colorfulness” devolve into full-blown mental illness. I didn’t expect I’d spend many awkward hours listening to her talk about how her neighbors were poisoning her, Conan O’Brien was doing experiments on her, or how her children were “in on it” with the University of Oregon and the Cheshire Cat.
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