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Eight years, 2 months of muscle straining, oxygen deprived, mind exploding, grief-laden work to manage the grip of the skeleton hands of the past.
The rocky terrain and deep crevasses that held the traps of programmed words ready to pull me down into oblivion.
Deafening winds, echoes of the past knocking me down, pushing me sideways, making it hard to grip the rope. The storm passes, allowing rest in the snow caves of acceptance.
So many times, wanting to give up, give in to the beast of symptoms. But trusting, knowing, that my Sherpa would guide me through the sharpest peaks and deepest valleys.
Summiting many times, thinking there were no more hidden mountains. Then catching glimpse of the last, gnarly climb looming just around the bend. Everything inside me screams, “No, leave it,” but I realize that climbing all but that last steep incline would leave me stuck, and…
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