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He’s here too—The Other—who takes over whenever he wants, who hurts people I love—loved—most.
infant brains are deeply affected by the early separation from the biological mother. Relinquishment trauma.”
“Primitive memories precede language.” The doctor shares some of the research, explaining that even adoptees with stable, loving families may show signs of trauma. “In cases of domestic violence during pregnancy, for example. There’s also the impact of in utero rejection, when a birth mother who is ambivalent about parenting secretes chemicals that reach her unborn child.
“Your interracial background is another aspect for us to explore,” he says. “We know that there is some trauma inherent in that.” “In being mixed?” “Not in being mixed per se. It’s more about being of two races yet belonging to neither.”
No medication can compete with the restorative pairing of weed and mountain air.
destroying the small parts of herself that no one could see unless they really looked.
“Because I’m Black and you’re white?” “To strangers that’s what we are. But in real life, you are not Black and I’m not white. We’re just people, a boy and his mother who love each other.”
There was nothing like being part of a we. I would always fall for that.
At the time, I just thought I was crazy. I mean, now I know I am. But back then I didn’t understand the parameters of my craziness.
What comes to mind is The Picture of Dorian Gray, which I read in college. This guy unwittingly sells his soul so his portrait will age and reflect his rotten treatment of people, while he stays young and flawless. The guy leads a life of total debauchery, hanging out in opium dens, screwing anything that moves, murdering his enemies. Causing the death of the one girl he actually loved. That’s not me. Not me. Shit.
