It is a great paradox and a great injustice that writers write because we fear death and want to leave something indestructible in our wake and, at the same time, are drawn to all the things that kill: whiskey and cigarettes, unprotected sex, and deep-fried burritos.
I don't know if my mother was a narcissist - or bi-polar or borderline. Those were words she tossed around over the years.
Researchers warn us against walking out on married life without a dang good reason.
I've been thinking about disowning some of my genes lately. I have a few healthy, happy, long-living optimists in my family tree - most of them fans of Christian Science founder Mary Baker Eddy, a major champion of positive thinking. But I've got plenty of ancestors who played out more tortured hands.
When you study postpartum depression, there is a very clear understanding that in communities where you see more support, there is less depression.
Some caregivers want to reciprocate the care they themselves received as children.
My own habit had always been to write about the things that ticked me off in a given day. If I kept a journal at all, I kept it to vent.
