Beginning 

I’ve always wanted to write about my life; my past life. The one that doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. Not in the way that people grow and change but in the way that it hurts too much. When I do tell stories about my pre-Arizona life, it feels like a story that I am re telling to listeners. I nonchalantly and matter of factly state episodes of abuse, loss, grief and sexual assault without blinking an eye; without feeling that these vignettes are MINE. The looks of shock I get during and after are what snaps me into reality, into realizing how it all sounds to an outsider. They are good stories; meaty stories and I should tell them but how can I write about a life that I’ve dissociated from? How can I write a book about me when I can’t bring myself to really endure that past life again? To tell it would be to relive it and I don’t know that I can carry that burden. Again. Still. 
So be warned, it’s a heavy load dear reader, and you do me a service by taking a small piece of it off of my back.  

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