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I found an old photograph recently. It’s a flimsy, bent Polaroid print of myself as a child.
I don’t normally associate hotels with great works of art. Yet there I was, standing quietly, intently staring at a tree in the makeshift gallery on the mezzanine of the Washington DC Hilton.
For the past ten years I have spoken openly and publically about my emotional, physical, spiritual, and sexual abuse, something I only did in the past in the way of justifying my behavior. I would tell my wife and friends, “If what happened to me happened to me happened to you, you’d be drinking or acting this way also.”