It became every bit of me. A fear that surfaced once I could feel her kicks.
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They labeled me as the stereotypical NYer curt, abrasive, direct and harsh. I wore the label like a crown. I wore it like armor to protect me. To hide me. My armor will keep me safe. I'm tougher than they are, I told myself.
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The jig was up. I could stop pretending. My body horizontal on the grimy floor of a BART train was proof that this thing I was doing wasn’t sustainable. By “this thing,” I mean my life.
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