What my mother didn’t understand was that this wasn’t punishment. This was my salvation. I didn’t realize it either at first. I screamed for my father. And yes, I even screamed for my mother. I banged on the walls until they bound my arms with scratchy white cloth. Then I banged my head on the wall until the nurses came with long pointy needles, bringing dreamless sleep.

For a long time, I was in and out of a fog. My mother never visited me, but my father did, sometimes.

“My sweet little Angie. Are you still daddy’s little girl?”

This was the last thing he ever said to me. I was fifteen years old at the time. The fog was just beginning to clear and things were starting to fall into place inside my head. But for a long time, I truly believed what my father told me, told the doctors. You’re a sick little girl, Angela. Be a good girl. We only want the best for you.

The nurse left the room and my father put a hand on my thigh. In the old days, I wouldn’t resist. But something inside me snapped that day.