Let me start by saying that the trauma I speak of is not really trauma. It is a complete exaggeration of my inner thirteen year old who would highly disagree with my definition of trauma now. In fact, my inner thirteen year old feels insulted I do not consider seeing the film Wild Things with my father trauma.  If you have seen this film you have probably tilted your head and feel like I made a typo.  I have not, but without further adieu here is my story. Continue reading “Twenty years of the traumatization of an inner thirteen year old” →