By Tanis Miller
On the surface, I look normal. Healthy even. My past, it’s invisible to most. You’d have to look close to see the cracks in my facade and most people don’t bother.
But I can’t escape those cracks. There are reminders, flashing like a neon sign on a dark city street, reminding me I’ll never escape this path I’m on. A single white stretch mark beneath my belly button. A tattoo on my back with a scar running through the center.
The crows’ feet at the corner of my eyes, less from aging gracefully and more from being thrust into a vortex of pain. My nose ring, a reminder of the numbness I carried and a desperate desire to feel anything once more.
Yesterday, a lady asked me how I cope on the rough days.
The day before I received... More...
