When I’d been a teenager, I used to overhear my mom telling her entire knitting club about what was going on with me. I understood now what I didn’t then, that she’d needed to talk about it, to process it, to ask for advice. For better or worse, the presentation of my disorder had also been traumatic for her and my sister, maybe even my dad. But at the time it felt like an invasion of privacy and it made me feel like garbage.
