I don't hate my parents, or blame them for the bitterly neurotic synapses firing around my psychology. They fascinate me, as does the fact that I was born from them. There are few others that excite such nauseous fidgets. I stutter from Pavlovian fear and confusion when we speak. I have a classic infatuation with my father, and a hunch that we cooperate on threads of psychic connection. A flick of his eyes sends me lurching; I am tethered to sensitivity that sets its course on his ways. I envy that. I want to pierce that precisely. There's no hope for boyfriends, as it's clear who's the love of my life. I crumpled sobbing on a hotel room bed, piss drunk in a floor-length evening gown, and he said, "You are in this world, but you are not of it."He talks to me like this and I blacked out. I took turns raging and mesmerized, staying up late for stories and declarations, things to remember and make me chant while I swayed under too much wine. He could be frightening, sloshing Black Russians in the afternoon, pranking and visiting my bedroom abruptly. "Fuck you. I could beat you to within an inch of your life, but I could not stop loving you. I'd chop off my arms for you."Then gone again as unsolicited as he came, spirited off to another corner of the house. Adolescence was a tumultuous time for us and words hung.

I neither hated, envied, or wanted my mom dead. I feel her coming on in me, and am optimistically resigned to such a fate. She's childlike, whisked from unremarkable inconveniences. I think she still reels in a nice house, shrinking into quality fabrics she doesn't quite realize belong to her. Shielded and content, she acts out her dementia within a quilted veil of the private lives of people with pools and home security systems.

When panicky, she unravels into hallucination and nonsensical paranoia. The docile singing going on in the kitchen while she blips back is more chilling than actual delusions. A huddle of hushed and conspiratorial soothing passes in dim hallways. A giggle and a shrug. She's happy and we'd keep her that way. I wouldn't lodge complaints or accusations, and I wilt at gloating. Curiosity keeps us poking around, antsy with anticipation of our next violent reunion. As inevitable templates for personality and coping, we're leisurely and clumsy about determining our final distances.

By Diana Binge