“My mother has been an addict for most of my life,” I said. “I used to believe she would wake up one day and not be one. I tried to help her the only way I knew how as a kid. I’d take little objects. A spoon, a clothespin, a bottle cap. I’d put them on the edge of the table and push them off, pretending they were the bad things in her life, and if only they were to fall away from her, everything would be okay and she would stop unraveling. When that didn’t happen, I started to think it was because she didn’t love me enough. I started to hate her. But the more I hated my mother, the more I
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