reflections

The older I get, the more I understand why my mum would throw plates. Now, I know that's not acceptable behavior, and I know she's bipolar, and I know throwing things is never the answer. Maybe this is a sign that I'm sliding toward insanity, or maybe I'm just being honest--don't we all want to throw things sometimes?--but I understand. That stack of Fiestaware plates, to her, wasn't just a stack of plates: it was proof that she wasn't just a housewife who lived in a tiny cinderblock house with a leaky roof and five children, but a person with taste and appreciation of beauty. Those plates were proof that she was more than the sum of her parts, that there was a life beyond the obvious, that someday she would have a house and lifestyle to go with her dreams. So when one broke, the frustration was too much.
Or maybe she just liked to throw china.