Behind Closed Doors

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Abigail Sarah Stuart 10M English essay – Behind Closed Doors March 2013 Darkness surrounds me. I hear the familiar sounds of shouts; flying through my ears and into my heart. Tears creep to my eyes and my throat dries up. Hands tingling, chest pumping and my feet start to give way, as everyday memories soak my body with pain and sorrow. Slowly, I slide to the floor; clench tight against my knees, as tears trickle down my cheeks and onto the cold cemented ground. Behind closed doors, I sit and cry. Someone gently calls out my name. My mind has gone so far back that I do not even recognise that voice. A soft touch on my shoulder brings me back to the present. Once again, I realise I am only sitting in my therapy room and not still living in the horrors of my childhood. The room feels warm and cosy, yet my hands are cold and sweaty. I look up into my therapists eyes, lost and afraid I search her face for an answer; she gives me a tender smile and relaxes back into her blue silk chair. Teddies and pictures in the room become my focal point as I recall the flashback. I grew up in a house with one brother and sister, a father who worked over seas and a psychotic mother. This to me was no family but a hell hole. I will introduce my family, one-by-one, to help you understand why I called my family this horrific name. My brother, Jonny, who was five years younger than me, always screamed. It would happen at any time of the day. No one ever saw it coming. He would fling his head back and throw himself onto the floor, for no apparent reason and nothing seemed to console him. Genevieve, my older sister, had Bipolar and an eating disorder. Even in the midst of all her own problems, she still had the most amazing way of supporting my brother and me, and making us feel like we were a family. I hardly knew my
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