“You’re killing me” my mom tells me. She’s crying again. I am the source of all her problems – the figurative cancer of her mind. I am rot. I am filth. I am her daughter. It started today when I announced that I’m not taking my Zyprexa, an anti-psychotic, anymore. I weighed myself again today and all my efforts have been for naught. I haven’t eaten regularly in weeks and still nothing. I starve and fester. Fester and starve. I feel numb and loathsome. Mom fears that without this abominable drug, I will end up stuck in the hospital again – this time permanently.