She talks like someone who hasn't had anyone hear her for a long time.
The grand hall is dark and full of music that rakes the air apart. Sickly green light slides down the walls and swirls around the ceiling.
She is lying to others to give herself space to heal.
The unreasonable expectation that my friend will immediately run out and get a book I recommended, read it at once and respond to it with the same enthusiasm I did.
"It was not the best day ever," she says, pronouncing judgment on a family outing.
Protracted shame is one of the worst emotions anyone can feel. There's no hope in it. It's a dirty, secretive worm. That's why abusive people, whether consciously or not, are so eager for others to feel this; it keeps people suffering quietly, convinced of their own defectiveness.
Music in waves that pound my eardrums to sand.