I am half crippled as I drag this baggage behind me.
Bags full of fun things like shame, guilt and pain.
I try to create new patterns, but before I know it, I am back in that all too familiar rut, dragging well worn left overs of another time, another place.
It smells and tastes familiar as I begin to notice, I am back accepting the old abuse.
The recognition is still excruciating after all of this time.
I thought I was done with this, that I had managed a complete metamorphosis, a regeneration of myself.
Oddly comforting that pain, guilt and shame.
I have seen beyond the patterns and long to be there but I am so tired, beaten down by the relentlessness of generations of abuse.
The harder I scrape the the stronger the bond....
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