Our demons are ours and ours alone. My mother’s demons were hers. Even if she were still here, I couldn’t ever really understand what it was like for her, why she did the things she did. I tried in the wake of her death. A fool’s endeavor. But I have no regrets, because I know now that she wasn’t crazy. I’m not sure anyone is. I think it’s just easier to call someone crazy than it is to admit that they could be right. Easier to call someone crazy than to confront the nuance of their circumstance, than to accept the callous cruelty that exists in the world we live in, the evil out there that
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