But my impressions of myself, the bedrock of identity, were chaotic and strung out of order, a spilled necklace badly reassembled. And that wasn’t the only reason I was unsure of sharing my story. There was a strong sense that forgetfulness, and the corrosion of my mental health at a young age, were bound together. I was hesitant to step into the fog, because I knew there were monsters in it.
