He could say I was witty, or sharp, or ironic. But he likes to say that I am mean. Never a compliment, by choice. I don’t think I am mean.

I could say all the people I know do not think either, but he would say I was insecure. I don’t think I am.

I love his sense of humour, I love that he is a fighter. But I’m bleeding from a thousand wounds.
I am a fighter too. And I know pain. I attract pain. I seem to provoke violence – verbal and physical. No sense running away; I would run into the arms of the next man abusing me.
Good that I have colleagues, friends who appreciate me. I can regenerate.
I can make myself very small and silent, but mostly I don’t succeed. So we fight.

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