No-one Deserves an Aneurysm
You are born with threads going into and out from you. The tall person in the white coat has a busy, worried look on their face as they bring out the scissors with the curved blades to cut most of the threads off of you. First they cut the one that connects you to them, then they separate you from your mother. They give you the scissors, in a gilded box.
You cut them all off as you grow up all forsaken, denied, refused, and you tremor when you cut the last sinewy ones. Your relatives disappear one by one.