I’ve read books that remind me my ache is not unprecedented. My mother was nonetheless in my life, routinely in crisis, and I was conditioned to really feel accountable. I gave her pep talks, fostered a dog to be her companion, compiled a list of bilingual therapists she never went to see. “I’m sorry you’re having such a tough time,” I learned to say. “You ought to talk to someone, but it can’t be me.” She’d blame me for not caring or helping her, and I’d chew my tongue. Although she informed me I’d imagined it, I remembered the methods she’d abused me and how detached she’d seemed to my suffering.
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