We All Go a Little Mad Sometimes
—
Mallory Smart
I’VE BEEN REWATCHING Bates Motel for months. I fucking love how millennials recharge by shutting down completely and putting on their obscure comfort show that went off the air years ago. I keep telling people it helps me sleep, which is stupid. It doesn’t. It just fills the air so it doesn’t feel like I’m rotting in a questionable jar in the back of the fridge.
At first I liked Norman for how twitchy he is. Vibes. Like he’s trying to hold his skin on with both hands. Now I admire the way he keeps pretending he’s fine. That slow, sad performance of normal.
Somewhere along the way my worst intrusive thoughts, the barnacle ones, started answering to Mother. Not as a joke. Not as a metaphor. It just felt correct. Like she’d been waiting for me to catch up to my own mental illness.
Mother tells me Norman is misunderstood. She says everyone has a voice like her and most people just lie about it. She quotes the old line about a boy’s best friend being his mother and laughs like she invented it.
Sometimes I pause the episode and stare at Vera Farmiga. She has this perfect exhaustion, like she’s been up for forty years with no break. Mother says that is real love. Something that devours you a little. It's kinda hot if you’re into that kinda thing.
I tell her I should probably go outside. She says, “Of course,” like she’s humoring me. The hallway light makes that low buzzing sound, like it’s tired of trying.
Last week I put a chipped bowl on the coffee table and poured off-brand Frosted Flakes into it. Breakfast tables are for rich people and who the fuck are we kidding. I told her to sit. I wasn’t joking. It’s embarrassing how normal this feels.
The bowl looked ridiculous. Earnest. I put a second spoon down because that’s the kind of person I am now. I turned the hallway light on for ambience or maybe an apology. I went into the kitchen and made a whole scene out of looking for paper towels. I don’t even use paper towels. I just needed the sound of a drawer thunking in the air so it felt like I was participating in a real life with real life tasks.
Even Norman made pancakes when things got bad. Then he put on her robe. Slay, queen.
But let’s face it, I’m no Norman Bates. I can’t cook pancakes. And I have no robe.
When I came back the bowl was untouched. The couch had two dents in it, like someone sat beside me for a long time. The couch smells faintly like detergent and a little like me giving up. Maybe that’s the same smell.
When the credits fade, something stays behind.
The quiet settles in like it owns the place.
It waits for Mother’s next line. •
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Mallory Smart is a Chicago-based writer who loves keeping it weird. She is the author of I Keep My Visions to Myself and The Only Living Girl in Chicago, the host of the podcast Textual Healing, and Editor-in-Chief of Maudlin House, an indie press for restless, unapologetic voices. Her work shows up where you least expect it and lingers longer than it should.
Website | @malsmart
At first I liked Norman for how twitchy he is. Vibes. Like he’s trying to hold his skin on with both hands. Now I admire the way he keeps pretending he’s fine. That slow, sad performance of normal.
Somewhere along the way my worst intrusive thoughts, the barnacle ones, started answering to Mother. Not as a joke. Not as a metaphor. It just felt correct. Like she’d been waiting for me to catch up to my own mental illness.
Mother tells me Norman is misunderstood. She says everyone has a voice like her and most people just lie about it. She quotes the old line about a boy’s best friend being his mother and laughs like she invented it.
Sometimes I pause the episode and stare at Vera Farmiga. She has this perfect exhaustion, like she’s been up for forty years with no break. Mother says that is real love. Something that devours you a little. It's kinda hot if you’re into that kinda thing.
I tell her I should probably go outside. She says, “Of course,” like she’s humoring me. The hallway light makes that low buzzing sound, like it’s tired of trying.
Last week I put a chipped bowl on the coffee table and poured off-brand Frosted Flakes into it. Breakfast tables are for rich people and who the fuck are we kidding. I told her to sit. I wasn’t joking. It’s embarrassing how normal this feels.
The bowl looked ridiculous. Earnest. I put a second spoon down because that’s the kind of person I am now. I turned the hallway light on for ambience or maybe an apology. I went into the kitchen and made a whole scene out of looking for paper towels. I don’t even use paper towels. I just needed the sound of a drawer thunking in the air so it felt like I was participating in a real life with real life tasks.
Even Norman made pancakes when things got bad. Then he put on her robe. Slay, queen.
But let’s face it, I’m no Norman Bates. I can’t cook pancakes. And I have no robe.
When I came back the bowl was untouched. The couch had two dents in it, like someone sat beside me for a long time. The couch smells faintly like detergent and a little like me giving up. Maybe that’s the same smell.
When the credits fade, something stays behind.
The quiet settles in like it owns the place.
It waits for Mother’s next line. •
Mallory Smart is a Chicago-based writer who loves keeping it weird. She is the author of I Keep My Visions to Myself and The Only Living Girl in Chicago, the host of the podcast Textual Healing, and Editor-in-Chief of Maudlin House, an indie press for restless, unapologetic voices. Her work shows up where you least expect it and lingers longer than it should.
Website | @malsmart