So many people ask, 'How could you forgive your mother for the way you were raised?' It's really not forgiveness, in my opinion. It's acceptance. She's never going to be the sort of mother who wants to take care of me.

We all have our baggage, and I think the trick is not resisting it but accepting it, understanding that the worst experience has a valuable gift wrapped inside if you're willing to receive it.

During recess at school, I'd slip back into the classroom and find something in some other kid's lunch bag that wouldn't be missed - a package of crackers, an apple - and I'd gulp it down so quickly I would barely be able to taste it.

I was so worried that people wouldn't like me or my story.

My life is not just about the past.

Everything in life is gray, you know.