Recently, I’ve felt like I’ve been unable to take a holiday — or even a few days off from work — without being haunted by trauma and depression as if it’s some kind of specter, rattling its chains in the attic.
Case in point: I had a few days off last week thanks to public holidays in the United Kingdom, and I was determined to rest, to disallow my mental illnesses to intrude and steal more time from me, as they’re prone to do.
Things started off well — I was able to rest and relax until, on Thursday evening, I spotted a message from somebody who knew me in childhood and who knows my mother — my emotionally and verbally abusive mother, with whom I’ve cut all contact.
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