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Her mouth was gaping open, her face wore no expression and her skin looked like wax. And it was then I realized that wasn't my mother. That deceased person in that bed was just a vessel, but it sure as hell was NOT my mother. All I could think was michael moriarty one word. Corpse. After this day, I came to michael moriarty grips with my past. And I came to grips with her, and the feelings I held in regards to her since I was a child. All michael moriarty my life I called her Mother, and I suppose she was in many respects, and I cared for her, and at times when she was mentally healthy, I loved her, but my real mother died when I was 5 years old, but was she really a mother? Or an egg donor? Fuck, I get so confused. To be frank, as much as it saddens me (sometimes) they are both gone, I am better off without them. I think I never really had a real mother at all.
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