[ The writer was raped when she was twelve by a pack of boys, one of whom she loved. She told no-one. She began eating and eating.]
Even as I became more and more withdrawn, my family remained strong, connected in these intimate, indelible ways. I have no doubt that my parents noticed the change in me. They would continue to notice, to worry over me, for the next twenty years and longer. But they didn’t know how to talk to me and I didn’t let them in. When they tried, I deflected, refusing to take the lifelines they offered me. The longer I kept my secret, the more attached I became to keeping my truth to myself, the more I nurtured my silence.
Roxane Gay, Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body