I used to pray you know, pray to God that He would somehow stop it. All the nights of listening to my mother scream and things breaking. Of holding my brother and sister and listening...

Oh God just look at me now… one night opens words and utters pain… I cannot begin to explain to you… this… I am not here. This is not happening. Oh wait, it is, isn’t...

I repeat one of my mantras. ‘This is not happening. This is not real. This did not happen to you. That was someone else.

My mother’s outh drops. ‘Emmy…don’t say those things Emmy. Remember, we don’t talk about those things.”Yes Mom. I remember. That’s why I’m here, looking like this.’An orderly knocks on the door and announces that visiting...

Ricky just listens. He isn’t shocked. He isn’t surprised. He listens to me because he knows. He knows the shame and the guilt and the sorrow and the rage. And he does not judge me....