When I was little everyone always told me, "you're too young to understand" or "you don't know what's best"....."that's not mom, mom loves you and that's all that matters and somewhere in there she's screaming to get out."

I still remember the day that spring when she...-the woman who I still THOUGHT was my mother- packed up all our old photographs... Every face in the background that did not belong to us cut out... Every sentimental childhood drawing of our reminiscings worth, every passport, every sense of her missing children's identities packed up.
Screaming.
Pulling.
Begging us to go with her.
Torn between the woman who I still thought loved me, but did not claim me as her own, I hesitated...Hesitated one hour too long.

I never understood why all the curtains had to be shut ALL the time.
Why it wasn't safe to read Harry Potter?
Or play outside with my friends...
I never understood those days my dad took us to therapy.
Or the nights I would wake up to the screaming, that would echo in the dead air of the night...or was it just the creaks in the wall playing with my mind too?

If I ever learned anything from my mother in those two years it was,
First... Take the time to literally dance in the rain. It may actually be the only time you're allowed outside.
Second... see both the beauty and ugliness of solitude and appreciate both. You might just learn something about sociology.

Why some people go through these experiences I do not know.
Why almost 1 in 4 adults suffer from mental disorders... I do not know.

But lastly, I learned that there is great importance in loving the beast when the beast doesn't even love you.

I still remember the day that fall when she.. -the woman who WAS a transparent version of my mother, returned.

And they all talked about it for an hour or two.
And they all went out for Kentucky Fried Chicken...
And they all rarely ever said anything about those two years ever again.
The wound was healed, but the scar will always remain.
And they all lived happily ever after.