The other side of the coin.
I did not have a happy childhood and my teenage years were little better. You'd be surprised at the abuse that went on behind the doors of what looked like an affluent London suburban household. I still wonder whether I see things darker than they really were. I repeatedly come to the conclusion that I don't and that my bitter memories of my father - still so raw after 40 years - are deserved and justified.
Funny really, because it got so bad not that long ago that I had counselling for it. The counsellor encouraged me to confront these issues so I could relax about them, but I can't, and so I try not to think about them, but I can't do that either, so I go round in circles.
Life only got better when I left for good in 1982, aged 21. I should have done it years before - I had the chance to emigrate to the USA, I turned it down. Ah well
