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My friends advised me to get angry. I couldn't, which was frustrating, because I knew angry would feel better than sad. I made photographs of the places that were saddest and began embroidering my friends' thoughts on them, in my own voice, hoping to force myself to believe them. I was gratified by the difficulty of it— forcing a needle through heavy paper, fingertips bleeding, nails breaking, thread in knots upon knots. 

My feelings changed as I worked. I began to print and stitch on cloth— those thoughts and that narrative were mine alone. It was easier and felt gentler, less loud. I never did get angry.