I'm watching a documentary, "Jupiter's Wife," about a homeless woman with schizophrenia who lives in Central Park. Every time she does something I recognize, in myself or someone else, as a symptom of her illness, I recoil with horror. Wordplay, obsessions with myth and personal fantasy, losing her children.

A month before my nineteenth birthday, I gave birth. My husband and I were young, poor, stupid, and enthusiastic. That’s probably not such a kind encapsulation, but I’m 37 now, and when I see people that age now I think, Children. My son is now the age I was when I gave birth. I shake my head in wonder or disgust, knowing full well how young ( Read more... )