Every time I spend time with certain members of my family, the five stages of grief happen in my brain.
Except rather than acceptance, the final stage is praying to all available deities that it’s not too late for me to fight heredity.
Maybe add a bonus sixth stage of eating feelings, which pretty much starts the cycle right over again.
I know I’m bound to turn into my mother in some respects, but I’m *thisclose* to asking my closest friends for reassurance on others. (I haven’t, because my ex would say I should have more faith in myself, and even *I* would say, “If you don’t want to be like that, then just don’t be.” So I’m trying. No guarantees, though.)