Sometimes I’m glad my mother hadn’t been well. How selfish of me, I know. It’s not the same as being glad she lived with schizophrenia.
Still, I often feel conflicted, guilty and ashamed. Maybe this is the primary source of my anxiety. Or maybe it’s the primary source of my migraines.
Or maybe the anxiety is. I am never sure what came first and what’s responsible for the stress my body holds onto like blubber in an arctic winter.
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