My mom wears a smile, one that hides bitter rage and hurt.
When faced with a painful situation, she comes in one of two settings: overreact or don’t react at all. Deep down she seems to have bitter wounds that have cemented in to hardened bitter rage, like old taffy turned to cement.
She wants to help and comfort. I can tell she does, but she doesn’t know how.
My mother doesn’t know how to be empathetic. Continue reading How I Avoided Bitterness