Sometimes when I lay still, I’m seven again.
Laying in my bed at night, paralyzed with fear that my mother would die.
That my grandparents would die.
Because my father already had.
Death crept inside my chest and pulled in so tight that I could barely breathe.
“Mom… are you still awake?” I would call.
Sometimes once, more often five or six times, every five minutes or so until sleep finally settled over me and overpowered my fears.
Death and my anxiety have been lifelong partners... Read More