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I had never told anyone about my consumption of the human flesh, so I always wondered if many other people hid the same secret. When I got caught, it was such a scandal, apparently. My dad said I was a monster, that I needed to be sent away, and then I was. I’ll tell you more about that later, for now I just wanna clarify a couple things before you start to judge me and my story: I didn’t do anything wrong, I never hurt anyone, and I only ever ate my own flesh. There’s nothing too crazy about that. And even after all this time, all this “treatment” I still don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. I think it’s the least interesting thing about me, well maybe not—but it’s certainly not the most. And yes I know now that I can’t do that anymore and that she won’t let me and this and that but I still don’t think it was that big of a deal. Back then I already knew about psychopaths and serial killers but I also knew I was nothing like them. I was just a weird girl, fascinated by which part of my body could withstand a bite—where it hurt and where i could barely feel it. It was really bad on my arms, especially below the elbow, although i found it got easier as i went down. I couldn’t even feel it on my feet—I could pierce through layers of skin without even reaching blood—it fascinated me. I didn’t really like the taste of blood. I didn’t mind it, but I didn’t like it. And mostly it scared me to bleed, I mean what if I were to bleed out? How much of me could I eat before irreplaceable damage was done? How much more before I gave myself an infection. How much could I take, and how much could I give?