Every full moon I would look out the window to contemplate the moon with my mother. She always looks beautiful! She would tell me. Always, I answered.
The moon produced so many things in me: curiosity, fascination, fear and terror. I wished that the moon did not exist, that her nights out did not influence any more the madness of any mortal, that they did not influence more in the madness of my mother.
I had read in one of my science books that the moon affected the tides and any body of water. And in the meditations that I made of my readings, I concluded that the human being was composed of 80% water, therefore, the moon exerted an influence on him. I also read that there were three membranes that protected the brain and between them flowed a viscous liquid called cerebrospinal fluid. The moon, surely, would have an unfavorable influence on it.
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Sometimes I would like to be like many, feel that I live because I breathe and enjoy without asking myself the reason for metaphysical events. At a young age I had decided not to marry, I felt that I could not condemn someone to live in the midst of barbiturates and schizophrenic crises, and if plans failed me and I married, I would not have children, but I met an interesting man, whose charm was his criteria well thought out based on science and, like me; he enjoyed natural phenomena. Someone with whom he could speak with passion about literature, painting, music, cinema, theater, as well as sex or religion. Even though I took two steps to push him away, he took four to stay close. I married Horacio and, after a while, he wanted us to have a child, but as much as I justified my refusal, he was not convinced by my excuses. I came to ask him to have his desired child with another woman and of course, he did not accept.
I gave in to his insistence and we had a beautiful baby boy, which increased my terrible fear. My childhood flew by while I was dealing with my mother’s illness, and now that I was an adult and she was gone, I was still dealing with my traumas: I became a psychiatrist. I helped many deranged people, but who would help me? Ray! Fucking life is always ironic!
The anxiety was growing more and more: he could not tolerate the alarm clock, the sound of the microwave, the traffic light whistle and the cars in the street. I did not eat well, I did not sleep well, the hair began to fall in quantities, the nails became more brittle, the headaches increased and the nervous tics were more noticeable, I had recurring nightmares of the worst moments of my childhood.
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Follow the news of El Espectador on Google NewsI wondered if my son was in the fortuitous plans of schizophrenia and I was terrified to think that he would lose again what he loved the most. I became obsessed with the child. I left my profession because I did not want to leave him alone for a moment, I gave him vitamins, nutritional supplements, expensive toys that would show my love. I stopped going to social gatherings, I put aside shopping, cooking recipes and little by little I was losing my taste for the simple things in life. Horacio kept out of my hobbies and I took care of hiding them from him when he got home.
The medication helped me regain control of my life, I returned to work and social life, but one of those days that you do not want to repeat, I started to wake up my little one, but he did not respond. I was alarmed, I was filled with fear, my motherly instincts were sharpened and I quickly gave him first aid. I was glad when he opened his eyes, but the disproportionate laugh told me that he was still sleeping.
I stared at him, searching his physique for a hint of normalcy. Several hypotheses such as Sleepwalking came to mind. Not! The idea of always that I already believed exiled clouded my thought and I said with tears in my eyes: my mother’s illness!
A gloomy cold seized my body, I remained immobile before the materialization of my fear. I went back to the past that bled my soul and I saw her, the moon, beautiful as always, but clouding my judgment and mind.
