Excerpts

I was a young age when I began to wonder the purpose of the pit in my stomach. I remember sitting in the sacristy of my church, knowing I had to ring the bells for the Passover service, and when I forgot glancing at Father O’Malley with a look of fear that made me want to pass out. I recall the first time I met one of my cousin’s older friends, and him telling me I was puny for a sixth grader. He was in eighth grade and looked like a mountain. I never thought I had a chance. I remember the first time I heard my mom and dad shouting at each other, and hiding in the corner of my room, feeling afraid to go out the door. I remember the first time I recognized anxiety when at a family reunion, I felt like everyone was talking about me, and so began my slow slide into my own internal playground of fear and paranoia. It wasn’t until years later when I glanced at family photographs growing up I discovered I had a flat affect in every picture. I didn’t know how to smile. I didn’t realize until I was in my late teens that all of my pictures made me look like an emaciated holocaust victim, with an even stare into nothingness. Why didn’t I at least smile? No one ever taught me how to smile the instant the flash went off. Instead, I became afraid every time someone came around with a camera, because I knew that little weirdo was going to show up in the family album once again.