I start writing and I pull back. I hate to air my dirty laundry, but I know other people suffer as I did (do). You will have to forgive me, if I write this, slowly. I tell my story, more and more honestly, as I can accept it, more and more honestly. I was not lying, but only telling part. I was lying to myself, or repressing, as Psych calls it. Did I have the worst hell on earth? No, but it was mine, and it was hell.