Sometimes, a desperado isn't born that way. He begins life like every one of us, as an innocent child, a five-year-old boy with a heart full of wonder and a mind too young to grasp the shame, guilt, and self-blame that come with sexual abuse. But abuse can break a child, and it was this brokenness that would eventually set me on the path to becoming a desperado. But the most crucial ingredient was the way I was treated immediately after the abuse came to light – how that little boy, Tod, me, was made to feel in the aftermath – which only deepened those wounds. These scars carve deep into a young soul, leaving marks that many, even as adults, can't bear to face. Most children never dream of becoming a desperado, but the crushing weight of such pain can force him down a path he never intended. It's a tragic journey of innocence lost and a soul burdened by a darkness it never deserved.
Recently, I wrote a story – a narrative reflection – that revealed me as the desperado I've been describing. It was a way to finally confront the pain of loneliness and the emotional walls that had defined my life for so long. But only now, as I delve deeper into my past, am I truly grasping how the treatment I received as that five-year-old, after the abuse, laid the foundation for the desperado I became. The way those around me reacted, the way I was made to feel, shaped my reality and set me on this path. The desperado's journey mirrored my own – a journey born from the trauma and its aftermath that I hadn't fully processed until now. By telling his story, I'm facing the hurt and isolation that defined me, and in doing so, I'm beginning to imagine what healing might look like – one small, painful step at a time.
After recognizing myself as that desperado, though I've started to let some light, color, and beauty back into my life, he still lingers within me. In many ways, I'm still him—carrying fragments of that solitary, closed-off man I used to be.
May I have your permission to revisit that story now, with a deeper understanding of the forces that shaped the desperado's life? Let's begin by revisiting an old Eagles song—"Desperado"—a song that, for years, resonated with me on a deep, almost unexplainable level. At the time, I didn't fully grasp its meaning, but it somehow felt like it spoke to something inside me. It was as if the lyrics held up a mirror to my own life, reflecting back the loneliness, the walls, and the distance I had built around myself. In its melancholy, I saw the desperado I had unknowingly become.
These are the first lyrics that begin capturing this man:
Desperado, why don't you come to your senses? You've been out ridin' fences for so long now. Oh, you're a hard one, I know that you got your reasons. These things that are pleasin' you can hurt you somehow.
The desperado, a solitary figure who has withdrawn into himself, lives in a state of emotional isolation out West. He's built a fortress around his heart, with walls of denial and fear keeping everyone out. Though he may move through the world, his true self remains hidden. This self-imposed exile, this refusal to face his own reality, slowly poisons him from the inside out. It erodes his spirit and condemns him to a life lived in the shadows, disconnected from genuine human connection.
The song continues to tell us about our man:
Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy, she'll beat you if she's able. You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet. Now it seems to me, some fine things have been laid upon your table - but you only want the ones that you can't get.
Though fleeting moments of connection pierce the veil of his isolation, this desperado remains adrift, a solitary figure in the vast expanse of human existence. He finds fleeting solace in the arms of troubled souls, mirroring his own inner turmoil. Yet, he turns away from the gentle embrace of those who see beyond the rough exterior, those who would cherish the hidden depths of his true nature, leaving the melodies of genuine love unsung.
Now we see more unexpressed sadness:
Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger. Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home. And freedom, oh freedom well, that's just some people talkin' . Your prison is walking through this world all alone.
Imprisoned by the familiar weight of his isolation, the desperado, despite yearning for something more, something real, has come to believe that his solitude is an inescapable fate. The echoes of his internalized pain whisper that his longing for connection will forever remain unanswered, leaving him stranded in a desolate landscape of his own making.
The song now let’s us know the desperado is experiencing little to no feelings
Don't your feet get cold in the winter time? The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine, It's hard to tell the night time from the day.
You're losin' all your highs and lows. Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?
It's indeed chilling to witness someone so profoundly detached that they can't even grasp the concept of feeling. The question "Do you feel anything about anything?" becomes a chasm, exposing the emptiness within.
Because of the weight of everything that came before, the song builds to a powerful yet melancholic crescendo, ultimately fading into a very poignant, quiet ending.
Desperado, why don't you come to your senses? Come down from your fences, open the gate .It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you. You better let somebody love you, (Let somebody love you) ,You better let somebody love you before it's too late .
By now, we understand our desperado so well!
With the Eagles' haunting melody still echoing in our minds, let's delve into the story I've woven. It's a narrative reflection, an exploration of the inner world of a man named Tod w/ only one d. He embodies the very essence of the desperado immortalized in that iconic song – a man ensnared by self-destruction, his choices mirroring the song's melancholic strains:
This story is about a place way out in a sparse suburban part of the country, and the single person living there.
About this lonely location, the thought of this singular person is that this place is fine with him because, in this vast, gray, and cold land, there are plenty of fence posts that need tending to.
It’s his kind of place because here, there are no other people to encumber him - save the cold and hardhearted queen of diamonds who sometimes comes by to visit and beat him down.
Of course, something obvious never occurs to him - slowly, breath by breath, step by step, he’s growing old here.
Sometimes, as he approaches the gate that often needs mending, he has vague reflections of being on its other side where warm and thoughtful gifts, full of light, color, and beauty had been put on some past, well-placed lovely table he sat at with wonderful people who laughed joyously with him.
Somewhere, in a dreary, gray, very tiny corner of his mind, a thought quickly popped up, “Could one of those people laughing and being happy with him have possibly been the Queen of Hearts?”
As fast as a quantum particle, this thought quickly popped out of existence.
Immediately then, he shifted his thoughts to think about how, half a mile down the fence lined with barbed wire, stands another post that needs tending to.
“My feet are cold and sore, but it's better to tend to that useless task than reflect on meaningless beauty and happiness”, he thought.
Oh, there has been an occasion or two when he wondered why his world is always cold, always gray, and why white snow never chose to add a cleaner contrast to this life and this place in which he lived.
But as always, he made himself busy, he took another breath, another step, and walked alone to the next place the fence needed his calloused hands to fix it up.
In conclusion, we need to know and understand what our lone man never comprehended, located above his every step, a rainbow was always present, but his persistent choice was to always keep his head down and focus solely on his fences.”
Yeah, this is a pretty bleak story. You might be wondering, as I hinted at earlier, if there’s a prequel to this sorrowful tale of a hard and damaged man—something that might explain how I ended up this way. How did I become the desperado, a man who, by choice or fate, lives in solitude, always reaching for seemingly nothing while turning away from what could bring him peace?
To truly understand the desperado and how he came to be, we need to journey back to my childhood. My story begins at the tender age of five, when I first experienced sexual abuse.
This is incredibly difficult for me to share, but it's essential to understanding my journey. I tangentially touched on this sexual abuse in Chapter Two of the "Fierce Honesty" section of our blog, in a story titled "Can a Boy Experience #MeToo?" But there, my story went little beyond the periphery of the things that happened to me.
To understand why, well, I explained it in my last blog post, "Learning to Bleed." I shared how, for most of my life, I shut myself off from truly experiencing a wide range of emotions—joy, pleasure, passion, fun, happiness, and countless others. Like the desperado I once was, I built walls around myself, convincing myself that these feelings weren’t for me, that I wasn’t worthy of them, or that allowing them in would only make me more vulnerable. For years, I lived in isolation, emotionally closed off, locked in a battle with myself that kept me from experiencing life in its fullness. But a few years ago, I began to let those walls come down. I started saying yes to feeling, really feeling, for the first time. It was like waking up to a world of emotions I had spent years avoiding.
What I didn’t fully realize then was that while I was acting out these newfound emotions, I wasn’t truly writing about them. I was caught up in the wave of new experiences, reacting to the feelings as they came, but I wasn’t yet able to grasp or articulate exactly what I was feeling. I was like a child experiencing a new toy but not yet able to describe it. I acted out the emotions—expressed them in ways that felt right at the time—but I was blind to the deeper truth: I couldn’t yet put words to the actual feelings beneath all of that. I was still learning what they truly were.
Considering everything we've discussed, I think it's time to revisit my earlier blog post, "Can a Boy Experience #MeToo?" But as I share it again, I feel a pull towards something deeper, a need to offer more than just the words I wrote back then. I want to be more real with you, more honest, more vulnerable.
This is about the five-year-old Tod w/ only one d, the boy who existed before life molded him into the desperado I've described. It's crucial to look back at the roots of his story, to see the innocent child hidden behind the mask he would eventually wear, before the world, and his own choices, turned him inward.
So, let's embark on a journey back in time. Let's dive deep into the prequel to the desperado's origin story, to that tender age where it all began – before the walls were built, before the pain hardened him into someone he never truly wanted to be.
We'll start with chapter two found in the Fierce Honesty section of the blog:
Chapter Two: Can a Boy Experience #MeToo?
They say when a person speaks out about sexual abuse it can free others to speak.
I don't want to say #metoo, I mean, being a 5-year-old boy I can't be objective as to what actually happened all those years ago, nor can I righteously judge the severity that "me too" demands as far as I'm concerned. Is there anything that can mitigate the actions of the boy only 5-7 years older than me? But if speaking out can help someone, anyone, well I have to be me, I have to be fiercely honest.
Looking Back: At the age of five, I was just a carefree, innocent child—though, as you’ll soon see, my maternal care (read, lack of positive nurturing) didn’t allow for much room for true happiness or carefreeness. I was incapable of judging the severity of anyone's actions, regardless of their age. The concept of mitigation—or the idea of lessening the impact of actions—wouldn’t even become a word I heard for many decades.
Around the year 1965, my family lived in Evansville, Indiana. Down from the house we lived in on First Avenue, there was Wolfs BBQ where the school I attended, Highland Elementary was across the street. We lived next door to my grandparents where you'll now find Ziemer Funeral Home. They used to own that land along with the very modest two-bedroom house that sat on it. I was a happy camper during that time. On my way to school every morning I'd run down to my grandparents' house to meet up with my Aunt Kay and Uncle Jay to walk to school. Somehow, my grandmother always had 3¢ to give me for extra milk, that and a kiss, but what kid doesn't love extra milk at school right!
Looking Back: I’m not sure if I’ve made it clear, but my grandparents owned the land and the house that sat on it before the Ziemers bought the property to build their funeral home. As for being a happy camper during that time, my grandparents played a huge part in making that happen. I teased that I didn’t like having my nana kiss me, but I’d let her, because, like most first graders, I loved extra milk—and to get that, you needed extra milk money, which nana always had – for the price of a kiss. It wasn’t until years later that I learned she had that extra money because she’d quietly set aside change from their grocery bills to make it happen. What a beautiful woman she was!
But that neighbor kid from the house on the opposite side of our house desired physical contact. Behind our house was an overgrowth of shrubs and bushes. In that area, he'd be beckoning me and 2-4 other boys my age to meet with him. We always did. He'd request us to do things to him and to let him do things to us. I vaguely recall none of it meant anything to me, except for the shame that was introduced. Telling would have consequences. I thought none of us wanted the consequences, shame can be a powerful motivator for a boy. Then someone's feelings were twisted, and he became angry, he wanted to cause trouble, and he did. My mother would hear about what happened.
Looking Back: The kid, probably around 10 to 12 years old (though, in the far recesses of my mind, I sometimes wonder if he could have been 14), lived with his family in the house directly next door to mine. Before any of the sexual abuse started, I usually ignored him, but he did have a much younger brother, close to my own age, with whom I spent a lot of time playing. Behind our house, there was a briar patch thick with blackberries and other wild bushes. Somewhere in the midst of that thicket was a small, almost hidden clearing. I remember another neighbor who had goats—my mother constantly complained about them—and perhaps it was the goats that helped clear out that small patch of land. But the real point is that the briar patch formed a secret space, a little world of its own, tucked away from the watchful eyes of parents. It was here, in that hidden corner of our small world, that the neighbor kid chose to act out his sexual desires. Not just on me, but on at least two other kids, though I vaguely remember there being three others involved.
Even though it was 60 years ago and the memories are hazy, I can't describe that haze as an unfathomable 'mysterious fog.'" It began with us kids being encouraged to take off our clothes, framed as a fun game. Though there might have been initial hesitation or discomfort as the first child undressed, it quickly turned into a playful and exciting activity as we all joined in.
Once we were all comfortable with being naked, things progressed further. This is when the touching of our pee-pees began. I specifically use the word "pee-pees" to emphasize that this happened to us as male children. After the touching was introduced, and we became comfortable with that also, the oral sex started. He gave oral to our pee-pees, and of course he insisted we did oral on his as well.
I don't remember us ever using our pee-pees to enter his anus. However, after we had accepted the oral sex and it became normal, he began putting his pee-pee into our anuses.
I have to believe that while we children were somewhat acclimated and comfortable with all these happenings, I can still vaguely recall experiencing a sense of dread and apprehension.
This is where I need to circle back to something I mentioned earlier—the way my maternal care never allowed for much of that carefree, happy-go-lucky childhood that other kids seemed to enjoy. From an early age, I was always aware of a certain nervousness, a tension in my relationship with my mother. Even by the time I was three or four, I was already living with a constant sense of apprehension around her. There was love, but it was tangled with fear—fear of her reactions, fear of disappointing her, and fear of what might happen if I stepped out of line. Have we talked about a desperado?
Anyway, I remember a specific moment that really sticks with me, a moment that might help explain how that fear began to shape me. My mother had stepped outside for a minute, and for some reason, I locked the door behind her. I wasn’t thinking of it as a joke or trying to be mischievous. I was just acting on impulse. But when she knocked and I didn’t unlock it right away, her reaction was immediate and fierce. She started pounding on the door, screaming at me to open it.
Then came the threat: “I’ll come in through the window, and you’re going to get it.” That’s when the fear really hit. I can still feel that panic now, as I ran from window to window, locking each one as if somehow that would stop her from getting in. But there was no hiding from her. When she finally climbed through one of the windows, her face twisted with anger, I knew something awful was coming. I don’t remember the specifics of what happened next, but the fear I felt is burned into my memory. I know, without a doubt, that it involved harsh corporal punishment. And at that moment, I was terrified. I feared for my safety, not knowing what was going to happen when she got to me.
I had to tell you all that to explain the conflicting feelings I experienced – being both mostly acclimated to the abuse we were experiencing as kids, yet also sensing a deep-rooted dread and apprehension. It's important for you to understand this dichotomy as we delve further into my story. So, while we children felt somewhat comfortable in our situation, the perpetrator introduced the specter of parental punishment if we revealed what he was doing to us. As a five-year-old, I had no ability to understand I was the victim and that he was the one who should have been afraid. But, what he said inserted a very powerful fear in me. My five-year-old emotions tried to figure out what I had done wrong, let me repeat that, my five-year-old brain tried to figure out what I had done wrong.
So, what was it we were doing, raced feverously through my little mind. I didn’t really have a concept of sex, but this experience taught me whatever it is, it’s done when people are naked. At this, even my five-year-old mind could understand that there must be a reason people, both older people and very young children, wear clothes. That reason must be this – because no one should be able to see you naked. That much reasoned by my child’s mind, my childish mind was scared to know that not only was I naked, but I was also doing this sex thing. Even though I wasn't consciously aware of it, my five-year-old mind intuited an overwhelming sense of shame and guilt. I didn't know how to process this horrible emotion, so it stayed with me, eating away at me and making me feel terrible. And to make matters worse, it grew bigger and bigger with every passing moment. Remember the looming threat of parental punishment? Well, I wasn't just afraid of my mom's punishment, I was terrified of it.
I don't recall exactly how many times this happened, but I'm certain it was at least three, maybe even five times. Eventually, one of the children got angry about something and threatened to tell our parents. And he did.
I think I might have preferred death in that moment when my mom called for me.
Had my mother confronted the next-door neighbor's parents by herself, maybe things could have turned out different. It started out that way until she called me forward to face them, soldiers, no matter how tiny, do what they're told. It turned into a thing where my mom wanted me to tell the boy's parents with certain clarity what had happened to me, while at the same time the boy's parents were looking directly at me and earnestly telling me, "That didn't really happen. Right?" The shame became the darkest, ugliest beast I'd ever faced in my young life. I timidly told them "No". My mother became angry, "Son, tell them it did happen to you", and I dutifully but tearfully told them it did. Then his parents repeated back to me "It didn't really happen, did it." Sometimes soldiers aren't equipped to fight beast's so dark, so I retreated, running into my house so I could jump into bed to cry like a boy of 5 can cry.
Looking Back: I have to be honest with you: all those encounters with the neighbor boy were nothing compared to what you just read. This experience, the one my mother dragged me into, not only bruised my heart, it inflicted a wound that would quietly and selectively torment me for years to come. As young as I was, as I’ve said, I was unaware of anything “sex” meant. But the fact that my mother was made aware of what had happened inside the clearing of the briar, and her raging, very negative, very loud screaming temperament in handling what happened made me feel bad, dirty, fearful and ashamed of everything I’d done. At this point, at least I was inside our house. But, of course, my mother wouldn’t allow me to hide from these feelings for long. “Tod Thomas Culpepper” always meant trouble and fear would grip my soul upon hearing her scream those words.
When she screamed my name, demanding I come outside, I must have wished I could disappear. The fear and dread were so intense, it must have been nearly impossible to walk out that door. But I did, and as I stood there, facing her rage, all I must have wanted was to be dead.
Why was I feeling so horrible about something I didn't understand? How could I feel such immense guilt and shame about sex when I didn't even know what it was?
All I knew was that I was drowning in a sea of negative emotions. I felt like a terrible, awful child. Dreading my mother's anger, but lost and confused, I was forced to go outside and stand between our two houses with my mother and the boy's parents.
There, in my small, scared voice, I had to tell them what had happened. My mother demanded I confess to these people. My thoughts—that I had done the most hideous thing anyone could ever do—made it feel impossible to speak, but my fear of my mother was stronger than that impossibility. None of it made sense to me. I was so confused, so young.
And even though I told them the truth, they didn't want to hear it. Looking back, how could they? How could they look at a sobbing, out-of-control five-year-old and say, "That didn't happen, did it, Tod?" But somehow, they managed to make my guilt and shame even worse. It was all too much to bear.
Lost in my confusion, I grasped for any escape. And they seemed to offer me one: if I agreed that none of it happened, I could finally get away from this unbearable situation.
But what did I know? I was only five years old. Saying it never happened didn't appease any maternal nurturing my mother may have possessed; instead, it incensed the banshee who had possessed her for that moment in time and space. She terrified me even more with her red-hot anger at me, me—insisting I confess to his parents that it actually happened.
At this point, as a young child, I was unknowingly and unwittingly grateful when the boy's parents offered me that escape route a second time (although, looking back as an adult, I realize they were just being cruel to that little me). I was wondering if it would make this whole ordeal go away. "It didn't happen, did it?" they asked, to which I replied, “No.” My answer didn't make anything go away; in fact, it worsened what would happen next.
I have a vague, yet entirely real memory of my mother becoming unhinged. Looking back, with compassion for that very young, very vulnerable version of myself, I now understand I was watching the banshee I had mentioned earlier take complete control of her. In this frenzied state, filled with hostility and monstrous emotions, she screamed at me to go to my room, telling me she’d deal with me in a minute.
Crying uncontrollably, I bolted into the house, my feet pounding against the floor as if I could outrun the terror swirling inside me. The moment I crossed the threshold of my bedroom, something in me broke. I either leapt or flew onto my bed, my body propelled by a desperate need to escape. I buried my face as deep into my pillow as possible, suffocating in the softness, hoping it would absorb my grief.
I cried for what felt like hours, my sobs raw and endless. I cried for the confusion that clouded my young mind, for the intense, paralyzing fear of my mother, now a stranger in her own skin. I cried for the horrible thing I had done, something I couldn’t fully understand, but knew was unforgivable. But underneath it all, I cried for a small, fragile hope—hope that this moment would pass, that the storm would subside, and everything would somehow return to normal as if none of it had ever happened.
Not long after that, my mother came into my room and I could tell that she was furious. She asked me in her loud angry voice why I had made her look like an idiot and why I didn't tell the truth. I told her I was scared, but I didn't know how to tell her she was making me feel like I was being bad. Beyond that, I don't remember much, I do know I was traumatized and emotionally scarred. Still and somehow, this toy soldier soldiered on. The experience proved to me how shame around sex was warranted. That shame, in various and sundry forms stays with me to this day.
Looking Back: The ghost of that day still haunts the hollows of my memory, a spectral echo of my mother's fury reverberating through the chambers of my heart. I see her now, a figure wreathed in righteous anger, her voice a whip cracking against the walls of my fragile five-year-old world. "Why did you make me look like an idiot?" she shrieked, her words piercing the thin veil of my innocence like shards of glass. "Why didn't you tell the truth?"
Sixty years have passed, and yet, the terror remains etched into the marrow of my bones. I feel the sharp bite of the belt, or maybe it was a switch, against my bare skin, a searing pain that mirrored the turmoil raging within. It was a punishment that made no sense, a betrayal that laid the first stones in the foundation of a fortress I would build around my heart. A fortress designed to keep the world out, to protect me from the pain of vulnerability, the sting of rejection. But it was also a prison, a self-imposed exile that would keep me trapped in a cycle of isolation and distrust.
Back then, I was drowning in a sea of unprocessed emotions. Fear, confusion, shame, grief – they churned within me like a tempest, a maelstrom of raw sensation that I lacked the vocabulary, the emotional maturity, to even name. I yearned to cry out, to articulate the injustice, the violation, the sheer panic that constricted my throat, but the words withered on my tongue, choked by the unspoken edict that feelings were weakness, vulnerability a sin. And so, the seeds of a lone wolf were sown, a boy learning to suppress his emotions, to bear his burdens in silence, to become a solitary figure in a world that seemed increasingly hostile.
Ours was not a household where emotions were nurtured, explored, or even acknowledged. Feelings were messy, inconvenient things to be swept under the rug, hidden away in the shadowy corners of our hearts. So I bottled them up, those untamed, primal emotions, until they festered and soured, transforming into a toxic concoction of confusion and self-recrimination. This was my training ground for a life on the fringes, a life where trust was a liability and connection a risk too great to bear.
At five years old, I was ill-equipped to navigate this labyrinth of adult emotions. Why was I being punished for something that was done to me, not by me? Why was my mother's anger so volcanic, so disproportionate to my transgression? Why didn't the neighbor's parents believe me, their denial a slap in the face to my already wounded spirit? The questions swirled endlessly, unanswered, unresolved, each one a heavy stone dropped into the already murky waters of my understanding. And with each unanswered question, the walls of my fortress grew higher, thicker, more impenetrable.
The belt, the stick, the confinement to my room – they were intended as correctives, I suppose, but what twisted lesson was I meant to glean from their application? That my voice held no weight? That my feelings were inconsequential? That my body was a battleground upon which adult conflicts were waged? These were the lessons of a desperado in the making, a boy learning to rely on no one but himself, to trust no one but his own instincts, to carve his own path through a world that seemed determined to break him.
In that moment, the world split in two. The adults who were supposed to be my shield, my refuge, became the agents of my torment. My mother, the embodiment of comfort and security, morphed into a terrifying figure of wrath and accusation. And I, a small, bewildered boy, was left to grapple with the wreckage alone, a lone wolf pup abandoned to the harsh realities of the wilderness.
But there was another layer to this betrayal, a deeper wound that festered beneath the surface. It wasn't just that I was punished, but that I was punished regardless of what I said. Whether I told the truth or a lie, I was found guilty. This insidious dynamic, this "guilty no matter what" scenario, chipped away at my sense of self, eroding my trust in the very people who were supposed to love and protect me. It taught me that my voice didn't matter, that my truth was irrelevant, that I was powerless to influence the course of my own life.
The shame, oh, the shame, it took root like a noxious weed, its tendrils winding around my heart, choking the joy from my soul. It whispered insidious lies: "You're bad. You're dirty. You're to blame." These lies became my twisted gospel, shaping my self-perception, poisoning the well of my self-worth. They fueled the fires of my isolation, convincing me that I was different, damaged, destined to walk a solitary path.
And so, I soldiered on, a tiny automaton marching through a world that no longer felt safe. I carried the weight of that day, the memory of my mother's rage, the sting of the belt against my skin, the ache of unspoken emotions, the scars of a betrayal that cut to the very core of my being. I built fortresses around my heart, convinced that vulnerability was a chink in my armor, that expressing my feelings would only invite further devastation. I became a master of disguise, hiding my pain behind a mask of stoicism, a lone wolf cloaked in the shadows of my own making.
But now, sixty years on, I refuse to be defined by those buried emotions. I am excavating the past, sifting through the debris of memory, giving voice to the voiceless child within. I am acknowledging the fear, the confusion, the shame, the grief, and finally, finally, allowing myself to feel the full weight of their impact. I am dismantling the fortress, brick by painful brick, and emerging from the shadows, ready to embrace the light of healing and connection.
This is my act of defiance. This is my rebellion against the silence that has shrouded my life for so long. This is my reclamation. This is my healing. This is my truth. And it is a truth that will set me free.
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