Once, when I was like 14, Â my mother found a few meager scratches on my wrist, hidden under a bracelet. She exploded with anger, not a shred of sympathy, and I was mortified. I never wanted to hurt myself and I actually didn’t like the pain, which is why I hardly did more than drag the razor across my wrists. Her reaction was the icing on the cake. No more of that nonsense, I thought. A kid my age can’t be that unhappy; it’s just silly.
In retrospect, I think that was the first time I really felt anything.
I was molested by a family member throughout […]