Not sure why, but when I catch a glimpse of one of those clear, vinyl, decorated bags from my childhood in the 70s, I get the shivers. My first instinct is joy: that's where Mom kept my toys when we went out. The emotion following is overwhelming. An intense wave of powerlessness. 

I've looked into myself as deeply as I could, and don't believe there was a specific harm that happened to me in those early years. I must be associating it with a wave of grief that was drowning my mother. The rawness of her sorrow--it was uncontainable. She had lost her sister, and, to this day, a handful of years since Mom passed, I don't think she recovered. 

What makes one person so much more harmed by sorrow than another person? I wish I had an answer.