I was a five-foot-nothing ball of rage. I ran on plant fuel and sarcasm—even dragging a thousand-pound chain of trauma behind me, I still only weighed about five pounds soaking wet. I knew I was about as intimidating as a bug-eyed chihuahua. Even with the vitriol I consumed like coffee I was still self-aware enough to realize I’d spent more of my life under fists than I had raising my own.
