I grew up in the 1960s in one of the many daisy-chain suburbs surrounding Los Angeles. Seven of us, two adults and five children, struggled for living space in a tiny two-bedroom rental house. My father worked on an assembly line during the day; my mother worked nights as a waitress. Our family was hard-working, but the foundation was dysfunctional—a house built on sinking sand. Church, religion, and the Bible were unknown. Mother was a pill-popper. I don’t know what she took or where she got them, but she was always looking for sleeping pills when she came home in the morning and something to get her going when she left for work in the evening.
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