Back from a cop-out attempt, I endure the strip search. I turn and squat, and I can't pretend anymore that it is happening to someone else. I wrap my arms around my chest, covering my breasts and wishing I could cover my belly too, and feel tears of humiliation on my cheeks.
The staff member doing the search, the one I heard talking to someone behind group, saying she was sorry but my carved-up, scabbed arms were just too gross to look at, takes her head in my hands, says "awww" like she really gets what I am feeling, and kisses the top of my head. They let me get dressed. And my loathing for her is rivaled only by my desire for more affection from her, and a kind word.
