Ghost 19

by Simone St. James

I think that maybe none of it is real, except me. And then I think that perhaps all of it is real, except me, and that’s much worse.

I was starting to think that this tearstained monster—this woman of rages, of sobs, of hysterical laughter—was the real me, and that the woman I’d been for my first twenty-nine years was the fake, the imitation.

What makes an artist, after all? Some kind of passion, some kind of spiritual soulfulness I didn’t own?

“My diagnosis is that you’ve had some overexcitement of the hysterical kind. It happens sometimes with unmarried women. I have pills here that will help you sleep.”

The amount of books I've read lately all involve female hysteria 😂

“I can’t help it. I see a man, I flirt. Most of them like it.” “Do you like it?” My hand went still. No one had ever asked me that before. Why did I feel like crying?