I broke down, not fifty percent, not ninety-nine percent, but one hundred percent. Into pieces. My head tumbled into a corner, my torso rolled under the bed, my legs stacked on the floor, my potential track career vanished into thin air, my tennis career bounced into the trash, and my happiness moldered into the rotten gray color of depression. I’d become a Frida Kahlo painting. At the time, I couldn’t see past my broken self. However, when I look back, considering Frida’s lifelong struggle with her body and what that struggle opened into probably would have given me some much-needed
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