Gorilla and the Bird: A Memoir of Madness and a Mother's Love

The solution to mania is so simple yet so hard to come by. Just sleep.

Corporate America wasn’t too sympathetic to my plight: there is no overdraft protection plan that covers I was extremely manic and purchased $800 worth of novelty T-shirts from Urban Outfitters—can you let this one slide? You can’t accuse yourself of fraud.

What about all the poor brothers and sisters across the city and the shit they had to deal with? Fuck, what about all the poor brothers and sisters in Syria for that matter? They sure had their hands full. What do you even call depression in a refugee camp? Depression felt as much a luxury as veganism and fair trade coffee.

The house wasn’t even all that dirty to begin with. Monday through Friday (Sunday being the Lord’s day) we received our assignments from the CHORE CHART—a matrix Clyde created with the days of the week running across the top and our names, but not his, running vertically down the side. He was exempt because “My job is to pay the bills and put food on the table. If you want to do that, you can get off the CHORE CHART.” We couldn’t—child labor laws and all—so it was an empty offer.

There are two ways to approach the role of new stepdad: You can go the friendly route—soft-pedal, build some trust. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to replace your dad. Or you can seize the opportunity to lead that totalitarian regime you’ve always dreamed of. I am your parent! You will respect me! Clyde opted for the latter. He immediately instated something he called Heavy Chore Day—aka, Saturday. Like Sunday Mass, attendance was mandatory but HCD lasted much longer. The whole family was up and working by 0800 and the workday lasted eight hours. Duties were segregated between men’s work (in the yard) and women’s work (in the house). If there were any holdover friends from a Friday night sleepover, they were welcome to stay, “but if you’re here, you need to contribute.” Our friends quickly learned to request early pickup times. Clyde’s vibe was all drill sergeant. “Police the lawn for anything that ain’t grass or dog shit. Shovel the dog shit. After you mow, edge the perimeter.” Half the jobs didn’t even make sense: “Move this pile of rocks to the other end of the yard. Dig a hole over here, cart the dirt in the wheelbarrow over there and make a dirt hill.