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462 pages, Hardcover
First published March 20, 2018
Depression, I opened my mouth to say, but the word refused to take shape. Why was it so hard to talk about this? Why did my mother’s condition feel like this big secret?
...
“She’s forgotten how to be happy,” I told him.
Her words come out in shattered pieces, unintelligible, thick with hopelessness, heavy under the weight of something that’s taken me years to even begin to understand.
Nothing is right, she says.
"We're not lost. We're just headed somewhere different."
“If he looked in my eyes straight on, he would know how he’d pierced me with an arrow, how its shaft was still sticking out of my chest, twitching each time my heart contracted. And maybe he’d see how my mother had sliced up everything else.”
“I would’ve carved out my heart and brain and given them to her just so she could feel right again.”
“My mother is a bird. This isn’t like some William Faulkner stream-of-consciousness metaphorical crap. My mother. Is literally. A bird.”
“Long before doctors put a label on her condition and offered slips of paper bearing the multisyllabic names of pharmaceuticals. Long before my father started leaving on his work trips. Long before everything: She was already hurting.”
“In the beginning, that mother-shaped hole was made of blood. Dark and sticky, soaked to the roots of the carpet.”
“Maybe that’s where all the other colors are hiding—in a dimension of the world we just can’t see, between our sky and the rest of the universe.”
“I suck in a deep breath and quicken my steps to press closer to my grandmother. Her proximity feels like a shield. If only I didn’t stand out so obviously with my lighter eyes, with my lighter hair and its streak of green. If only I had been raised more Taiwanese, and could somehow prove to these people that I belong here.”
“We try so hard to make these little time capsules. Memories strung up just so, like holiday lights, casting the perfect glow in the perfect tones. But that picking and choosing what to look at, what to put on display—that’s not the true nature of remembering.”
Once upon a time we were the standard colors of a rainbow, cheery and certain of ourselves. At some point, we all began to stumble into the in-betweens, the murky colors made dark and complicated by resentment and quiet anger. At some point, my mother slid so off track she sank into hues of gray, a world drawn only in shadows.
My mother is a bird. This isn’t like some William Faulkner stream-of-consciousness metaphorical crap. My mother. Is literally. A bird.Someone mentioned "magical realism" in their review of this book and I almost ran screaming away. I fucking hate the bullshit woo-woo of magical realism. It was a poor way to describe this book, because while it has a magical, mystical quality, the tone of the narrator makes it completely readable.
During sex ed, our teachers always made it sound like the guys were the horny ones. But right there on that couch I was certain that some crucial detail about the female body, or at least my body, had been left out.This book is about Leigh's journey to understanding her mother, someone she only thought she knew. It's also a journey for Leigh, who discovers herself. It's an excellent rite-of-passage book.
How could a person like her be depressed? She was full of energy and life and passion. The word depressed made me think of this group of kids at school who wore all black and thick eyeliner and listened to angry music and never showed their teeth. The ones who people sometimes called emo, making it sound like a bad word.This book doesn't glorify depression and suicide by any means, but it is so beautifully written. It was a long book, but definitely worth the read. Have tissues handy.
My mother wasn’t like that. Not at all.
My mother is free in the sky. She doesn’t have the burden of a human body, is not made up of a single dot of gray. My mother is a bird.
And maybe he could see how my mother had sliced up everything else. How even if he could wrench that arrow free, the rest of me was so punctured and torn that nothing would ever be able to suture me back together.
This was my mother’s home for the first half of her life—can’t it feel a little bit like home to me, too?
When did I last hear my mother play? I’m not sure; I guess that should’ve been a red flag.
How crucial those little fragments are now; how great their absence. I should have saved them up, gathered them like drops of water in a desert. I’d always counted on having an oasis.
If you are suffering from suicidal thoughts, please seek help. Please don’t let your illness take you away from the world, because I promise, it’s a better place with you in it. My inbox is always open, or you can contact any of these organizations if you’d like to remain anonymous:
• USA: National Suicide Prevention Lifelife: 1-800-273-8255
• USA: The Trevor Project (for queer youth): 1-866-488-7386
• USA/CA: The Trans Lifeline (for trans individuals): 1-877-565-8860
• UK: Samaritans: 116 123
• INTL: click here for a list of lifeline numbers and websites
GOOD THINGS!
“I suck in a deep breath and quicken my steps to press closer to my grandmother. Her proximity feels like a shield. If only I didn’t stand out so obviously with my lighter eyes, with my lighter hair and its streak of green. If only I had been raised more Taiwanese, and could somehow prove to these people that I belong here.”
Once upon a time we were the standard colors of a rainbow, cheery and certain of ourselves. At some point, we all began to stumble into the in-betweens, the murky colors made dark and complicated by resentment and quiet anger. At some point, my mother slid so off track she sank into hues of gray, a world drawn only in shadows.
Light the match. Touch the stick of incense—its tip alight and calm as an ember—to the vane of the feather.
My mother is a bird.
And I am only a girl.
A girl, human and wingless—but what I have is the beginning of a plan.
Hold your finger to the sky with so much force it lengthens like a spine. Look up to the point of it and beyond. Thre. That tiny patch of the world, no bigger than the tip of your finger. At first glance, it might just look like one flat color. Blue, or gray, or maybe even orange.
But it's much more complex than that. Squint. See the daubs of lilac. The streak of sage no wider than a hyphen. That butterscotch smear ad the faint wash of carnelian. All of them coming together to swirl at the point just above your finger.
Breathe them in. Let them settle in your lungs. Those are the colors of right now.
There's no point in wishing. We can't change anything about the past. We can only remember. We can only move forward.
// unofficial buddy read with the one who gives me good lick, the one who stabs her pets, and too gay for their own good
"Memory is mean thing, slicing at you from the harshest angles, dipping your consciousness into the wrong colors again and again."
Depression, I opened my mouth to say, but the word refused to take shape. Why was it so hard to talk about this? Why did my mother’s condition feel like this big secret?
...
“She’s forgotten how to be happy,” I told him.
“Once upon a time we were the standard colors of a rainbow, cheery and certain of ourselves. At some point, we all began to stumble into the in-betweens, the murky colors made dark and complicated by resentment and quiet anger. At some point, my mother slid so off track she sank into hues of gray, a world drawn only in shadows.”
"Memories that tell a story, if you look hard enough. Because the purpose of a memory is to remind us how to live."
My mother is a bird. This isn’t like some William Faulkner stream-of-consciousness metaphorical crap. My mother. Is literally. A bird.