I don’t like thinking about it. Sometimes, when I’m grocery shopping, or out minding my own business, a little voice in my head reminds me that I’ve made my mom cry before. I wince at fleeting recollections of myself being terrible. I have this deep sense that I’ve done awful things—that I’ve really hurt someone—but I’m not sure if I actually have. When the bug in my head starts whispering about how rotten I am, I distract myself. I turn on a podcast.
