She would lie on the crossbar of park swing sets like a cat and was so full of energy that even hours of intense sports couldn’t tire her out. I found her sitting in one of the hoops, twelve feet in the air. She’d once disappeared, at the age of six, in the middle of a basketball court. This was a child who’d spent years perfecting how to climb doorframes and stair rails. Despite having just finished two hours of soccer practice, she was bursting with energy. It was a lovely evening, one of the first of spring. Only minutes earlier, I’d been standing less than ten feet away in my kitchen, calmly andĬheerfully making dinner and talking to my daughter, who had recently turned thirteen. One day in 2010, I found myself standing, panic stricken and shaking, in a small bathroom in my house.
The first time I did, it was in the most socially palatable form: as a mother. The anger I felt was so deplorably mismanaged that I didn’t recognize it. What now? What to do with all the rage? This was not a question I could have even asked myself ten years ago.
This excerpt is taken from Chemaly's upcoming book, out on 20 September on Simon & Schuster.
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