I wore the same clothes I always did, and it didn’t occur to me that, because they could see an inch of a scratch that ran lower down my thigh than my skirt did, I was making the people around me extremely uncomfortable. It didn’t occur to me because I wasn’t ashamed of what I had done, which is not to say that I was proud of it—I wasn’t. It was just something I did, because I needed to. For me. Just for me.
