The saddest and hardest thing I’ve had to realize is that my mother is not my family, has never been my provider, and has never been my teacher. She has been my obstacle, the monster under my bed, the engine that keeps my insecurities running rampant. Why am
I just now learning how to be a real person? Because I had to survive the woman who gave birth to me first.
One of the more helpful and insightful things I’ve seen about depression/suicide in the last couple of days.