I do not feel that way about it anymore.

I have come to think of it as a record — the physical record of the exact second my old life ended and my real one began, the second I stopped being willing to break myself to make a small man feel large.

It is not a scar of victimhood.

It is a scar of survival, and more than survival.

It is the mark left by the night the foundation refused, at last, to carry the weight of people who had only ever meant to crush it.

Chapter 20 — Where I’m Allowed to Go