When my three children and I arrived at a women’s refuge, scared, skint and emotionally battered, I had no idea what to expect.
A refuge is one of those places that everyone knows about, but nobody knows about, if that makes sense? It’s like the afterlife for abused families – we all hear stories about it, but rarely hear about anyone who has been there.
But that Christmas I couldn’t take any more. Things were getting more and more volatile – not only were we walking on eggshells – hell, not even eggshells, what we were walking on were fragile eggs that could crack at any moment – but we were also holding our breath so often and for so long that we were running out of oxygen.
In short, we were dying.
Read the rest of the article at the wonderful Suburban Misfit Mom
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