by Deborah in California
From childhood, I vividly remember sitting on top of my shoes inside of the closet, as I hid away and cried. I would cry for hours, if no one caught me and yelled at me to stop. Sadness was my existence; I did not have the words to articulate my experience. Almost every day, I went through an inexplicable pain; not only did I suffer with depression, but also I was being sexually abused, and I did not have the words to voice my experience. Living in a small, rural town during the 70's meant that family secrets prevailed. A book about molestation did not exist in the town library.