I get so mad when I think about what my life would have been like if I hadn’t been raped so many times at such a young age. I just got another memory. I hate when they come back. Because I was so young, it’s not a full memory. It’s just that I suddenly know something to be true. It’s awful. It makes me nauseous every time it happens. I fucking hate it. I don’t want to know any of this shit. I don’t want to remember it. The fantasy was better. It’s like The Wizard of Oz versus the grim reality of The Great Depression. I think people lie to their kids about what happened to them because the brutality of fact is too much to bear. I never cry in front of Fry. He knows I do it. We just agree to the fact that it is not his problem to worry about. I know he still worries though. He’s such a sweet kid, and so much his father’s son. I love my boys, but I worry about them so much. It is a hard thing to be the son of a father. But, they’re good boys. I love them.