She ran away from home. Her father molested her every Monday night after football. He crept into her room when mom passed out from too much Valium and too many shots of cheap scotch, said he was tucking her in, forced her hand inside his gaping boxer shorts, and whispered, "It sokay, it sokay," over and over.

Nobody loved her. Everybody loved her too much.


Joan’s parents don’t have abuse in them.

They are too plain.

Too unconcerned.

Loving in an ignorable fashion.

They barely knew they had a daughter.