Her hands trembled for a second. It would only have been noticed by her or her best friend, she always able to see beyond what was actually happening. She’d ask, “why,” I’d answer “lithium!” Which is true, but that’s not why today. She trembled at the thought that her body, so used to failing her, was failing her then. But not failing for the sake of failing or for safety or for recognition of something deeper going on. Her body was failing because she was so close to success. Her tremble was another hiccup, another reminder that if she kept failing it would prevent her from succeeding and she could forever live in victim mode. Her body failing in this manner allowed her to keep complaining about how her body was just not meant for this passion or this love. That this body was a trap and she was stuck inside, lost. Failure could keep her in her anxiety, in her tantrums, in her fear, each emotion, negative as they may be, kept her warm. Kept the cortisol pulsing through her veins, kept her hair getting grey, kept her right where the boundary breaker wanted her to be. Lost in the illusion that life itself broke through the boundaries she’d work so hard to create. Forever she’s been sick. She’s the mom always with a broken limb, even as she has no kids. She’s the woman who gets asked by her loved ones, “what is it now?” But what they don’t know is, that weakness by human standards kept her safe, kept her strong. Weakness kept people zeroed in on her and therefore zeroed in on him, the boundary breaker, my qualifier. Being sick kept me under the close eye of doctors, pediatricians, allergists, counselors and school teachers. And every visit to these offices were time she was not spending alone time with him; with his volatile moods, his rage, his humiliating her, his causing the neighbors to ask questions. It kept her with her Mamabear, forever protecting her through the time they spent out of the house. Until now, she never put all of this together.