This Isn’t the Conga Line

The scare for my parents was that I was to be born with spina bifida. The medical personnel recommended abortion. My mother refused; she was handed a healthy girl.

After I was born, my mother tells me, I was a child for whom troubles rolled off me “like water from a duck’s back.” My paternal grandmother says the same.

Somewhere along the way I have lost my resilience and picked up anxiety in every likely form short of phobia.

I remember once being exasperated with an older relative’s indecision about a situation when the two paths of action were plenty clear.

These days I can easily slide the rail of the spiral staircase of indecision, all the way to the paralyzing floor. It took me a year and a half to gather wits enough to start this blog, for example.

Two paths: Yes; no. And a wide circle between on which to trudge through indecision.

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