Play Nice

by Rachel Harrison

Behind every crazy woman is a man sitting very quietly, saying, “What? I’m not doing anything.”

Turns out, I was right. But so often, being right means nothing but winning a round of a losing game. What an empty victory.

Men are all the same, Mom once told us, but it’s the ones who try the hardest to convince you that they’re good that you really have to watch out for.

maybe what’s written is faithful to her recollection, to how it played out in her mind. One person’s truth is another’s fiction.

Men are never selfish. They’re smart. Women are always selfish. You want to be single? Selfish. You’re a wife and mother and do anything other than dote on your husband and children? Selfish. I want you and your sisters to learn to take that word as a compliment. Anyone who says that to you is trying to discourage you from doing what you want. That’s how you know you’re doing something right.

Never fall in love. It’ll ruin your life. More motherly wisdom. Funny, what memories stick.

“My point is, as much as I want you to come to terms with Alex…she’s gone. Your dad, your sisters, they’re still here. Those relationships aren’t worth damaging in pursuit of truths of the past.”

How could he? How could anyone? 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 revels in our suffering.