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Under Her skin
When one woman tried to pretend that her life was in order after a terrible tragedy, her raw, red skin revealed the mess she really was. By Diana Evans
S
o it had come to this. In the middle of the night in the middle of winter, I am sitting up in bed, wide awake, scratching the skin on my arms. It is not the kind of momentary, pleasurable scratching designed to relieve a passing itch (though there is certainly some kind of desperate pleasure in it). This is something much more brutal. My fingernails are clawing at the skin; they are wild, frantic, out of control. They do not stop when blood begins to emerge, when my scalp ...