people, especially grown-ups, weren’t interested in the truth but rather in a truth that suited them. They only wanted to know about things that made stuff easier for them. It didn’t matter that I was walling off parts of myself, that I was turning into someone else, a worse person. It wasn’t important to them whether I was happy, or whether I cried myself to sleep each night. No one saw it. For the first time in my life, I started to question why I existed, why I should even care about existing.
