Like most people, I had a sad childhood. Who doesn't, these days? My father left before I was born and my mother was on drugs from the day she brought me home. She slipped right back into her party lifestyle and turned our apartment into an opium den. I walked around in a drug-fueled haze for the first 5 years of my life. The smoky air flooded down the hallway and under my door and seemed to linger for days.
My mother wasn't a bad person, just a victim of her addictions. When she did have spare money, she would put food in the house and even sometimes buy me clothes from Goodwill. The only pieces of furniture I had in my bedroom were a box spring and mattress set and a little blue and white toy chest. Not that I had a lot of toys to put in it, just the 3 I had gotten for birthdays: one was an art kit, one was a red wagon, and the last, my pride and joy, was a doll named Betsy.
Betsy was my best friend. We would have imaginary tea parties together, sleep together, take baths together and, sometimes, I remember her speaking to me.
Thinking about Betsy in adulthood has led me to believe that I was a severely traumatized child who was often high on opium and therefore, my memories were extremely unreliable. Still, I remember the sound of her voice, a high-pitched, tinkled lilt. And I remember the things she wanted me to do. Steal food for her. Bring her forks, bring her knives. Hit the bad man who slept on our couch.. Always bad things that would get me in trouble. I would blame it on Betsy but my mother would never believe me. Adults never do.
