There's a thrift store in town that many mentally ill people frequent. The store is run by mellow types who put up with the strangeness of some of the customers. One woman talks to herself constantly. "And then in 1975, they took away my daughter." She tells her whole life story to anyone who will listen.
There's a schizophrenic guy who always looks at the bras.
And then, there's me. A quiet, passing shopper, who finds great deals for her 3-year-old son.
I have friends in high places.
Since I've been ill very few people scare me. It don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing.
It's like my mind has stretched a few feet to allow more people in.
I really like this thrift store. It's a place I can go when I have nowhere else to go.
They're good about that.
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