Chapter 2 - Smooth Edges
My mother had a talent for making cruelty sound clinical.
When I was fourteen, a cashier at the grocery store asked if I was excited for summer break. Before I could speak, my mother smiled warmly and said, “Caitlyn struggles with basic social transitions.”
I stared at the conveyor belt, watching a carton of eggs slide forward like it had more freedom than I did.
Jessica learned from her. She could insult me with one hand on a coffee cup and the other scrolling her phone.
“You’re not ugly,” Jessica told me before high school homecoming. “You just photograph like a hostage.”
When I complained, my mother said, “Don’t be petty.”
When Jessica screamed, she was passionate. When I raised my voice, I was unstable.
By thirteen, I had a prescription bottle with my name on it. By fourteen, I had three.
My mother said the pills were meant to smooth my edges. I didn’t know children were supposed to have edges. I thought we were supposed to have parents.
The first doctor barely looked at me. My mother did all the talking while I sat on the examination table in a paper gown.
“She lashes out. She withdraws. She has episodes.”
A week later, a little white pill sat beside my dinner plate.
“Take it,” my mother said.
“What is it?”
“Something to help you be less exhausting.”
Jessica laughed into her drink, and I swallowed the pill because at thirteen you still believe obedience buys love.
It doesn’t. It only buys tighter rules.
May you like
No locked doors. No sleepovers. No privacy.
My room was not my room; it was a holding cell with Pottery Barn bedding.
