In my failure to make sense of trauma, I have convinced myself that I have a right to safety and dignity, but am confronted daily with the fact that this is an illusion. So I weave introspective narratives of outrage and they keep me warm, while I try to keep that monster, that pathetic, weeping ghost-of-Tyson-past at bay. No more. The other day I found myself making that same disgusting begging noise for the first time in decades, please stop, please stop, a sound I haven’t made since the day I grew strong enough to smash my tormentor’s nose and blacken its eyes. But my spear was suddenly of
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