Narratively

Years of drug addiction, mental illness and incarceration sent my sibling over the edge. A decade later, when I spent a night in jail myself, I finally saw what lit his fire.

I was four when my father was sent away for domestic abuse. I was desperate to see him again—until I finally got the chance.

My second grade teacher’s abusing hands hurt more than I could say. A decade later, I feel as if I’m still being punished for his crime and I’ve told almost nobody until now.

He was coming for my mother, knife in hand. I grabbed her and ran, praying the police would get to our house before he could get to us.

I was only twelve when Dad was sent away—and that was just the beginning.

It wasn’t my first time in lockup, but it was the longest night of my life.

I was seven when a game of catch led to standing in a puddle of blood while my teenage neighbor lay dying. But I wasn’t too young to understand the stakes of “the life.”

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve known having kids is not for me. At 25, I couldn’t be more certain about my decision to undergo sterilization. So why does every doctor, nurse and therapist in sight keep trying to convince me otherwise?

Growing up in Chicago, my dad barely spoke of the horrors he witnessed during Argentina’s “Dirty War.” Then one day a doom-filled document landed on our doorstep and I finally began to understand.