I grew up believing my mother was crazy.
That’s what my father said, so it had to be so. I don’t think he ever used the word “crazy,” but that’s what he meant. I didn’t know any better, so I believed him. Mostly, anyway. I thought there must be something wrong with her — because she would get along with my father if she weren’t crazy. Right?
I grew up believing my father was the word of truth about everything. Worshipping him was the family religion. His word was divine. No dissent was allowed. To question him was a sin. And he assured me that my mother was crazy.
Everything was simple then. He was light; she was dark. He was sane; she was crazy. He was good; she was bad. He constantly told me stories to reinforce that.