Prozac Nation Read Online Free PDF Page B

upbringing, while my father would tell me that I should just be an artist or a poet or live off the land, or some such thing. But as arty and expansive as his ideas may have sounded, my father’s attitude and lassitude were not grounded in any sort of sixties collegiate bohemian philosophy of live and let live: He came from a background that was more blue collar-immigrant than anything else. And instead of college, he’d done time in the U.S. Army. He was not cool or groovy at all, just a fuckup. So while my mom, struggling with her part-time income and trying to take care of me, was frantic to keep at least a toehold in the bourgeoisie, my dad was working overtime (or actually, not
gainfully
working much at all) to stay the hell out of it. This went on, back and forth, for years, until it was clear that all three of us were caught mostly in the confusing crossfire of changing times, and what little foundation my parents could possibly give me was shattered and scattered by conflict.
    I don’t doubt that there might have been another kind of awfulness in being born to a couple of hippie druggies or politicos (I’m sure the kids a few years my junior have their own lists of gripes), but I’m convinced that it was worse to have grown up in revolutionary times, in the midst of a wildly vibrant city like New York, raised by people who were not really involved or engaged in the culture. Does anyone really want to be a wallflower at the orgy? My mom was desperate to shelter me from what she perceived as sheer lunacy, and my dad, who began loading up on tranquilizers shortly after the divorce, was just plain indifferent. I really believe that had either of them had any strong convictions or values to pass on to me, my worldview might have emerged as more sanguine than sanguinary. Instead, all they had to offer me was their fear: My mom feared the outside world and my dad feared me and my mom; we lived in a paranoid household in which everyone defined his own enemies and pretty soon everyone was implicated.
    One day, when I was about ten, my father told me that he had never wanted to have a kid with my mom, that their marriage was for shit and he had thought a child was a bad idea. But once she got pregnant, he added, he was most delighted. He said that my mother wanted to have an abortion, that she’d gotten as far as the gynecologist’s office and was all set to have a D and C, and that he physically restrained her to prevent the process. Later, when I told my mother about this conversation, she began to cry and said that the opposite was true: She wanted me and
he
didn’t. Given that she was the custodial parent, took care of me and loved me while he slept through most of my childhood and ran away without leaving a trace when I was fourteen, I must assume she is telling the truth. But who really cares? Some people are born to single mothers and turn out just fine. I don’t think it matters how many parents you’ve got, so long as the ones who are around make their presence felt in a positive way. But I got two parents who were constantly at odds with each other, and all they gave me was an empty foundation that split down the middle of my empty, anguished self.
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    They were separated and divorced before I was two.
    My only memory of my father living in the same place as me: I am, of course, just a toddler. I wander into my parents’ bedroom and find my father still lying there in the queen-size bed under the covers, his glasses perched on his nose kind of crookedly, his head bent to one side, kind of askew. He looks over at me but not really. Or maybe not at all. I have a pacifier plugged in my mouth, one of about thirty that I keep and name, one of about thirty that I stay up all night playing with, as I lie in the folds of covers forming a castle with my knees bent. My dad is still half asleep, forcing himself to stay awake because Mommy is already up and about, already making