childhood trauma
-
I look in the mirror and see my mother. I see her in my gestures too— the disorder she passed down, or a few. She taught me hatred. Not toward other people—never. She taught me to hate myself, burned it into me with every cigarette she pressed between her fingers, smoke simmering into my skin.…
-
One of my earliest life memories is of hastily leaving my childhood home after my siblings returned from school. Our mother was in a manic state. “Where are we going?” I remember asking—or perhaps only thinking it—and wondering where Dad was. I started crying. My mother thrust my sippy cup at me and screamed, “Here!…
