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I had never read Frankenstein, though I’d owned it for several years. It was always on my shelf, and I said I’ll get there eventually. It was on my booklist for the summers, and even on a course syllabus, that ended up being altered. Now that I’ve finished, Frankenstein is one of my favorite books!

I supposed what drew me into this book was the identification I had with several of its lead characters. I am part Dr. Frankenstein. I know what it is to become obsessive, to take great pleasure in ruminating over an idea. Sometimes the musing even out weighs the goal. I am part Henry Clerval. I almost always identify with the side kicks, because I was one for a long time. His struggle for independence trumps that of Frankenstein, and I’ll admit to some very genuine remorse upon his death. I am also the creature, or as we’ve been calling him Pier. I’ve been outcasted, but who hasn’t really. I think more than anything else, his struggle for humanity, to understand it and embody it, was the most touching.

Am I selfish for wanting to detach from my home a bit in order to find myself? I am I wrong to not be satisfied with mediocrity in my life? Is it okay that despite my own humanity, I struggle with it’s definition? Should I be scared that my NF could be passed on to my children, and if the man is right, make the case far worse than what I have now? Should I be afraid to love because I could create what others might find monstrous? I suppose I am not others.