So to leave this morning's emotional space behind, I resumed reading a fascinating article I started last night. The very paragraph on which I resumed hit me right in my memories.
Your dad's not sick. Silence . . . Your father's dead . . . He shot himself.
For me, it was at least a year between hearing the last two sentences, but the dynamic of being told he was sick, then traveling home, then being told he was dead is exactly what I experienced when I was fourteen years old.
I wonder what my life would be like if that had been the worst trauma of my childhood?
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