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My name is Rachel and today marks the
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anniversary of the day my life
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shattered. Not with a whimper, but with
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a scream and a rock that nearly ended it
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all. One year ago, a stranger's act of
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cruelty sent me spiraling into a world
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of pain, betrayal, and loneliness with
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only my husband, Tom, as my anchor. This
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is my story, raw and unfiltered because
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no one else seems to care. It was a warm
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summer evening and I was riding shotgun
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in my brother's car, his best friend at
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the wheel. We were laughing, the radio
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humming, my eyes glued to Pokémon Go on
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my phone. I tilted my head left, chasing
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a virtual creature, when an explosion
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tore through the air. A scream followed.
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A guttural anim animalistic whale I soon
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Pain seared through my head and left
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shoulder, my arm limp, useless. Glass
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shards stung my eyes, but I forced them
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open, staring at a gaping hole in the
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windshield right where my head had been.
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We were still moving, the car weaving as
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I didn't know what had happened until
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later. Some faceless coward on an
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overpass had dropped a massive rock onto
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our car. A random act of violence in a
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city where crime festered unchecked.
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If I hadn't been looking left, that rock
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would have crushed my skull.
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Instead, it slammed into the side of my
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head, bounced onto my shoulder, and left
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Blood trickled down my face, glass
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embedded in my skin. I fumbled for my
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phone, my hands shaking as I dialed 911.
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Knowing my brain could swell and kill me
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any moment, I called Tom next. "I love
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you," I whispered, tears mixing with
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blood. "Promise me we'll still dance in
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the rain." He stayed calm, his voice
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steady, but I could hear the fear
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beneath it. My brother pulled off the
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highway and an ambulance met us at the
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exit. My body shook violently, not a
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seizure, but shock, my system screaming
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Emergency lights flashed and the car
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door opened to reveal EMTs, state
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troopers, and Tom's face, calm, loving,
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refusing to let me see his panic.
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I smiled weakly, clinging to
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consciousness, thinking of my best
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friend, Alex, who lived nearby, and my
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parents, who I feared wouldn't care.
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The EMTs struggled to move me. Glass
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covered my neck, making a brace
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impossible. But my neck didn't hurt, so
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I held my head steady, stood, and laid
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myself on the stretcher. Tom stood
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silently, his presence my only comfort.
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"It's going to be okay," I told him, not
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believing it myself. In the ambulance, a
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trooper snapped photos of my mangled
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shoulder for the investigation. The
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rockthrower was still out there, and in
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my crimeridden city, I knew they'd never
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be caught. Tom called my parents. My
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dad, always distant and cold, answered,
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annoyed at the late hour. "It's 11 p.m.,
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Rachel. We're in bed," he snapped. I
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told him I might not survive the night,
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begging to speak to mom. He handed her
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the phone, grumbling. When I explained,
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she acted like I'd stubbed a toe,
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complaining about her phone being in the
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bathroom. I sent her crime scene photos,
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hoping for some reaction, but she
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brushed it off. Okay, I'm going back to
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bed. Rest up. The ER was chaos,
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overflowing with patients. No one
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cleaned the glass from my eyes or
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offered pain relief for 3 hours. They
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gave me Tylenol. Tylenol. And I laughed
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delirious. Tom stayed by my side,
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talking softly, keeping me grounded. I
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called Alex, my best friend of 9 years
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who lived 5 minutes away. "I'm in the
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hospital," I said. A rock hit me. He
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freaked out, asking if I wanted him to
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come. "If you want," I mumbled, offering
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to pay for his ride. An hour later, he
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texted Tom. He was just getting in the
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shower. He never showed. The tests came
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back. No broken bones, no brain damage,
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just severe bruising and soft tissue
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damage. I should have been relieved, but
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I wasn't. I'd battled suicidal
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ideiation, PTSD, and chronic illnesses
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my whole life. This was just another
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trauma to haunt me. A story others would
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forget, but I'd relive forever. As I was
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discharged, I texted Alex not to bother
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coming. Tom drove me home and I curled
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up in bed, the world outside feeling
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like a minefield. For 2 weeks I lay in
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the dark, sleeping or sobbing. I ate one
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meal, a few bites of meat. In that time,
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leaving my bed felt unsafe. Every noise,
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every shadow was the rock falling again.
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I tried to raise awareness, starting a
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petition to install nets on overpasses.
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Over 200 similar attacks had happened
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that summer, but my plea went nowhere.
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online. Strangers mocked me, calling me
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soft, questioning my PTSD diagnosis,
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dismissing my trauma as a neat story.
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Locals stopped me on the street, saying
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my injuries didn't look that bad. My
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brother's girlfriend asked if I was sure
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I'd been hit in the head, as if I'd
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imagined it. "You're lucky," people
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said. "You didn't die."
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The word lucky burned like acid. No one
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understood the violation of surviving a
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random act of violence, the terror of
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knowing it could happen again. Tom, my
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high school sweetheart and legal
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caregiver, was my only constant. He'd
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raced to the ambulance that night,
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desperate to see me alive. For 5 months,
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he held it together, but the strain
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broke him. He wept, admitting the trauma
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had scarred him, too. I felt guilty for
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leaning on him, but he never wavered.
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Alex, my supposed best friend, offered
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no excuse for abandoning me. Later, I
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learned his addiction had spiraled. He'd
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even stolen cash, weed, and alcohol from
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us during a brief stay to help with my
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That was the final straw. I cut him out,
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my heart heavy but resolute. My parents
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never checked on me. Months later, my
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mom had the nerve to demand I fly cross
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country on a day's notice to euthanize
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When I refused, citing my trauma, she
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blamed me for downplaying it on the
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We went no contact for months until she
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apologized, citing a new diagnosis
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affecting her reasoning. I let her back
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in, but the trust was gone. My brother,
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never one for empathy, was baffled by my
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pain. "If it happened to me, it wouldn't
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affect me," he said. "I didn't bother
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explaining. How could he understand the
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weight of almost dying, of being
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abandoned by those I needed most? The
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next year was a battle. My eating
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disorder worsened, triggered by every
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loud noise, every piece of glass, every
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car ride. Driving under overpasses,
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especially the one where it happened,
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was torture. I'd gripped the seat, heart
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pounding, expecting another rock. My
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PTSD flared, memories of the assault
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looping endlessly. Therapy was a mess.
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Another story I won't touch.
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To the world, I looked fine. My scars
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hidden beneath my skin.
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People saw a healthy, beautiful woman,
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not the wreck inside. Today, the
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anniversary, I called my mom, hoping for
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comfort. It's not an anniversary, she
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said. It's not worth remembering. Her
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words cut deep, echoing the dismissal
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I'd faced all year. No one cared. Not my
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parents, not Alex, not the strangers who
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mocked me. The rockthrower was never
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caught. Justice a pipe dream in a city
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drowning in crime. Yet I'm still here.
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Tom remains my rock, his love unwavering
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despite the toll. We're rebuilding
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slowly, learning to navigate a world
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that feels like a battlefield. I've
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stopped seeking validation from those
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who can't give it. My story isn't neat
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or lucky. It's mine. A testament to
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survival. I carry the scars, physical
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and emotional. But I'm learning to dance
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in the rain again, just as I promised
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Tom. The rock didn't take my life, but
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it changed it forever.
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I live with the fear, the triggers, the
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loneliness of a trauma no one else sees.
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But I also live with resilience, with
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the knowledge that I got up from that
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stretcher, walked through that hospital,
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The world may not care, but I do.
