I don’t have the power to control myself as a teen. Mom controls my inner self. I feel that I’m doing wrong most of the time.

“Son of a bitch! You’re just like your father!” screams Mom over something or other I did that she doesn’t like.

I silently, woundedly, wonder, “How can I be just like my father, when I never see Daddy, and haven’t seen him in years?” I think Mom is stupid for saying this, but dare not say so.

Years later, in college, saved by Art, I fly away.

“Art gives wings and carries you far, far away! Anyone who is sick of filth and petty, mercenary interests, who is revolted, wounded, and indignant, can find peace and satisfaction only in the beautiful.” – Masha, Misail Polozniev’s wife in “My Life” by Anton Chekhov, 1896, (Ward Six And Other Stories).