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One of my last memories of my parents, my mom, who had been sober longer than I’d ever seen her before, looked me dead in the eyes and said, “It’s a curse being a part of this family. You’ll try your whole life to fix each other, but we’re not fixers, Sage. We burn things to the ground, and we’ll never be good enough to even sweep up the ashes. Don’t ever think you’re worth more than what you came from.” Then she walked out after the paramedics to follow my dad to the hospital. When you’re stuck in a house like that, the only thing you wish is for time to speed up—to live the life where you’re no longer tormented by the decisions of the adults who were supposed to protect you. I have that, and I’m holding on to it with both hands,
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