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he sky, seen in patches through the budding branches of oak and maple trees, was the bluest of blues, the color of cornflowers. The scent of fresh-cut grass tickled my nostrils. I’d rolled all the windows down to let the spring air caress my face as I drove—but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t see the skies, or the trees, or notice the smell of new grass. All I could see through my tears was the dark blur of my steering wheel, and my fist as I pounded it on the dashboard, again and again. I was going through one of the most painful, enraging, and transformational periods of my life. Long-buried childhood traumas were resurfacing, haunting me like restless ghosts: my innocence stolen, my bright spirit crushed before it ever had a chance to bloom. I felt like I was splitting open, ripped apart by the intensity of my emotions. I was terrified that I would never know who I was meant to be, because I was always going to be trapped in this vicious cycle of pain and anger, anger and pain. I was a single mom with a beautiful six-year-old daughter, and this pain was preventing me from being completely present for her. Not only was I failing myself; now, I was failing her. The torment was unbearable. With sobs wracking my body, I pulled the car to the side of the
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road, and tried to compose myself. I had never been the kind of person who turned to a higher power. I never believed that there was a power available for me to turn to. But that day, I finally reached my breaking point. I shook my fist at Heaven, and let it all out, right there on the side of a tree-lined street. If there was a God, I decided, He was going to get an earful! Twenty-nine years of anguish and shame came pouring out of me. I don’t know how long I raged—an hour, maybe more—but when I
by Linda Joy
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