I’m a 41-year old teenager. Maybe I’m 12. Or 22. Who cares. Not old enough. Mum wasn’t there when teenage shit the fan. But when I ask her now, she tries. She’s so bad at this. It makes her feel awkward to see me weak. If it’s someone else I’m crying over, she will cluck her tongue as if to imply I am wasting my life. And you know she’s right.
When you talk to your mother and ask for help, no matter how old you are, you’re a child. You’ve got your little arms up on the air saying, “carry me,” and sometimes she just might.