I am product of abuse. Physical. Emotional. Sexual. I say this because most of my life, I would never have admitted such a truth. I would have made it sound more colorful, delightful so that it would be more palatable to digest. I would have danced around the verity of knowing that the pain I have endured didn’t start with me. It began with a trembling urgency to break free, it lingered in exchanges that were damaged from survival, it is suspended in generations that will not allow the pain to visit long enough to heal it. I am a guest in my family. They just don’t know it.