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Perfect in our imperfection

I find myself thinking of those whose hearts are aching; who are pierced with a longing that raises its pain at every breath and who feel the only way to stop the agony is to stop breathing.

It is a hushed conversation. We readily discuss the horrors of cancer and its treatment that ravages the body. I have regular discussion with my daughter on how she manages the wretched diabetes and the byproducts of her daily care.

We ask for specifics about diseases and injuries that are visible to our eye. But meaningful conversation rarely digs into the mystery of mental illness.

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