Each time he hits you or she tells you you’re worthless and you—for whatever reason—don’t take a stand right then and there that you will not tolerate such abuse, you’ve made a docile statement that it’s OK to treat you this way.
When I was ten my mother stood in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in her hand and announced that I needed to go on a diet. That was the moment I became a woman.
Seven months ago, the house I had been living in with my boyfriend, Dave, and my miniature dachshund, Molly, burned to the ground while we were checking in for dinner reservations in downtown Milwaukee.
I love reading and writing about grief. I am fascinated by it. Joy, too. What mysteries they are–it’s impossible to figure them out but I love trying to.
