12th grade. I had survived a lot by this time. I had already grown weary of everyone and anyone. I had learned to trust no one and to never trust a good experience because it could at any time go south at the flip of a coin. I had moved out of my mom's house for a several months now. I was living with my father who was a drunk, but he was a drunk that liked reality and friendships.

Now, since I had moved out of mom's, my attendance at school had improved, and my grades had skyrocketed from barely passing to straight A's. Funny how a stabile home life will do that to a kid.

I was in english class and someone knocked at the door. One of the assistants from the main office had a message that I needed to report to the counselor's office immediately. I quickly grabbed my bag and went downstairs.

Now I knew the counselor that had requested me. We had talked a bit about some of the crazy things that mom had done to me while I was growing up, and he seemed to hold me in high regard for improving my grades and attendance. He was going to put a good word in for me to the air force. He wanted me to go to college so I could become a pilot. I thought this was a great idea.

I walked into his office and he had a very puzzled look on his face. Half concerned, half scared, he quickly glanced to his left, but I already knew... I could feel her there behind the bookshelf out of view.

My mother steps out from behind the bookshelf, looking into my eyes with those dangerously large pupils. "What have you done son?" A weird sort of concern in her voice.

Now I had no idea what was going on. I looked from her, to the counselor, to her, and back before I saw she was holding something in her hands.

It was a towel. A white towel. She pulled it back to reveal this strange object. It looked like a piece of sheet metal, clamped into what looked to be a section of windowscreen frame. It fashioned a strange type of axe, and it was covered in a a disgusting type of orange and red sludge.

"What the fuck is that!" I exclaimed.

"I don't know son, what is it?" She replied.

I was numb again. My ears started to feel like they were filled with cotton and my mind raced trying to figure out what the hell was going on. I regained my composure almost instantly and looked at the counselor. "Sir, you know me. Now, this bitch is crazy and I have had no contact with her for months." I then looked to my mother, "I don't what that is or what the fuck you're up to, but get the fuck out of my life." And I left the room and made it down the hallway before the tears came.

That counselor never looked at me the same way again, and he conveniently misplaced the number to his friend in R.O.T.C. My mother would later say that she thought I was sneaking into her house and was performing rituals in her attic while my friends videotaped her sleeping naked in her room. Now, I can honestly say that I never did any rituals of any kind, save for a rain dance on a hot day when I was about 6. And as for my friends, I'm pretty sure they had better things to do than videotape a woman in her late 30's while she slept.

To this day she actually believes this happened. She thinks people are following her and videotaping her every move and posting it on the internet. I think this aspect of her psyche disturbs me the most. After all the pain, all the tragedies that she put me through, that we faced together, after all the times I tried to console her after her boyfriends or even my father would beat her, she created this event in her mind, in which I was a perpetrator and she was the victim. This completely made up event is one of many delusions she holds close, and brings out at the most dangerous times of her dementia.

It's so weird. It sounds like a sick fantasy as I type it. But this is what she did, this is what she does, these are things she actually believes and it hurts me to the core.