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The Days I Have to Remind Myself I Am Not My Mother

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There are days when the anxiety seeps into my throat, regurgitating bile and my throat is closing in on me. The oppressiveness of old relationships bind up my current communications.

Saturday afternoon and I’m trying to relax but my throat and my anxieties are weighing me down. Generational and societal shame Mother’s Day rolls around with a rotting stench.

I don’t want to be reminded of my past through ads. I know it’s there. I feel it in my fucking throat, my fucking modismos/idioms.

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