When my mother was growing up, she had a voice in her head that laughed at her when she felt worthless. He was an old man, apparently, white-haired and high-pitched who just laughed and laughed at her. It was one of those things she just told me one day in the car all of a sudden, like her two abortions and the LSD her father gave her for her sixteenth birthday and her marriage problems. As a daughter I just didn’t touch those other things, I couldn’t, but the thing about the laughing man made me scared. That was when my blood started feeling too loud. That was when the water coming out of the faucet in the bathtub started sounding like yelling. Despite my pushing and my easy life I was genetically insane. It became something I couldn’t push; I could just watch it.
The night things got really bad, the night I wore my white sundress and called Simon about Sylvia Plath, I kept hearing the sound of that glass table breaking at Saul’s Gatsby party.
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