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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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