When my brother was little, he went to school one day, climbed on top of his desk, and screamed. He didn’t say anything. He just screamed. Nobody asked him why. When he ran away from home a few years later, the pastor of our church came over, witnessed my father’s performance as a remorseful parent, and didn’t concern himself with what exactly my father had to feel so regretful about. When I was six, my mother took me to a doctor – one of my father’s colleagues – who asked her what had happened to make me bleed. I don’t remember what she told him. All I know is that it wasn’t the truth. She didn’t know the truth. Only I and my father did. And no one asked me. Of course, by then I already had dissociative identity disorder (DID). Who knows what I would’ve said if they’d asked.