When my father sold me to other men as a child prostitute, he often made me wear a sheet over my head, with holes cut for my eyes to see the horror, and for my mouth to be available for servicing my abusers.
The woman is the mother in me, caring for the child in me, during the years of therapy. I was finally accessing my anger, and determination to survive, to heal, and prove to the world that I was stronger than what had been done to me. With the help of God and my therapist and every ounce of courage I could find, I did. Brava!