I sit before you and others like you, in silence, anxious about what I might be told. You deliver a litany of questions to my countenance as I sit in a chair beside you. Your attention is diverted to the cold and detached computer screen where my responses are entered without you ever noticing the fear in my eyes. There is no acknowledgment to indicate a level of understanding of my plight. How can I place my trust, which is sacred to me, to someone who doesn’t know me? How I wish to share my story because to know my story is to truly know me. But there seems to be no time for that. No time for empathy. No time for understanding. No time.
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