Britney

It’s astounding to me that I can feel all these things about people and they’ll not only never know, those feelings will never be returned. I am reminded of all the times my mother put out for me and I did nothing but take and take from her skein of rope. I am cackle-crying as I write this (Hysterical Woman trademark), and I know that my glasses will be stained when I am done. She won’t be here to clean them.

I watched the film Mommie Dearest for Mother’s Day, for the first time (three times), and even though it’s been called high camp, and a total defamation—both of which I agree with—I cannot help but sympathize with every woman’s breakdown that I see. (Isabelle Adjani’s depiction will always be the one I refer back to with the most ability to relate, and with the least disclaimers.) I’m in no way sympathizing with the film’s abuse, but I understand feeling that the tiniest misstep will expose everything that has been wrong up until that point.

I am sick, sick, sick. Always at the bottom of the barrel, reaching for the leech. I’m not good enough for myself. I don’t know if I ever will be. ♦