Educated

One evening, I got into an argument with a friend about something trivial,
and before I knew what was happening I had pressed myself into the wall and
was hugging my knees to my chest, trying to keep my heart from leaping out
of my body. My friend rushed toward me to help and I screamed. It was an
hour before I could let her touch me, before I could will myself away from
the wall. So that’s a panic attack, I thought the next morning.
Soon after, I sent a letter to my father. I’m not proud of that letter. It’s full
of rage, a fractious child screaming, “I hate you” at a parent. It’s filled with
words like “thug” and “tyrant,” and it goes on for pages, a torrent of
frustration and abuse.
That is how I told my parents I was cutting off contact with them. Between
insults and fits of temper, I said I needed a year to heal myself; then perhaps I
could return to their mad world to try to make sense of it.
My mother begged me to find another way. My father said nothing.