“Pull off your skin,” the letter suggested innocuously, as if the task were as simple as tying my shoes.

It started innocently enough, I suppose. A quick memo to start wearing jeans more frequently because our boss was “chill like that,” a brief note telling me to be more assertive and ask for that raise I’ve been wanting. But then, things began to change. “Show more cleavage,” one of them read a couple days ago. Then, “Tell more people in the office where you live.”

The format of the letters were always the same, written in a spidery hand on the little yellow index cards we kept in the break room. I would find them nestled in my belongings, perhaps slipped into my briefcase or wedged next to the framed picture of my nephew.

But there was held its power, in simple suggestion. As I stared at the latest note, dumbfounded, my mind felt cloudy, as though I had not slept in days. And then, like all the others, I felt compelled to act, like a puppet on a string.