We all leave childhood with wounds. I wonder if in time we may transform our liabilities into gifts. The faults that pockmark the psyche may become the source of a man's or woman's beauty. The injuries we have suffered invite us to assume the most human of all vocations - to heal ourselves and others.


I wonder, if the abuse has not made me who I am. Then in a twisted way should I be thankful for it? The fumbling ball of tepid feeling I am today would simply not be without those prior events. Instead of regret, should I not be pleased that I am one of the rare few on this planet who can truely call themselves a survivor.


A bit like a cockroach.