Last night I ordered takeout and ate it in front of the television. Once finished, I tapped the plastic spoon against the rim of the Styrofoam cup.
When I glanced into the container of half-eaten egg drop soup, deciding whether or not to save the leftovers, I felt engulfed by a strong sensation.
I embodied my childhood abuser. All of a sudden I am reeling in the shame of having eaten a meal like my stepmother had. The flashback was from when I was 8 years old.
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