I trace every misfortune of mine back to the divorce. I begin to claim that my failures don’t belong to me, and I consider the fact that no one can see that to be my biggest oppressor. I hate the story people tell each other about adult girls with divorced dads. I hate the shape my life takes in their minds, the condescending attitude that since my greatest pain is a commonplace one, it must also be plain and manageable. I list the ways this divorce is different from all others. I begin to lose track of the reasons why as the list grows. In dreams, I yell at people then slink away from them, mortified. In my waking hours, my blood throws a tantrum inside my own body every minute of every day.