A month or so into the coronavirus pandemic, I entered a period of deep reflection.
I, like many during this time, had moved home and was staying at my parents' house in the village I'd grown up in — a place that elicited mixed feelings within. All around me were reminders of a former world that had made me feel rejected and unloveable as a teenager. Memories that I'd pushed to the furthest reaches of my mind were resurfacing. But not just memories of past hurts — times I'd hurt people that I'd once held dear.
Spending day after day in my childhood home, I raked over old ground, tending to memories I'd buried long ago. When these had first been forged a decade earlier, I remember feeling vindicated, convinced that others were to blame. But now, amid long months of lockdown, I had a clarity of vision looking back and found myself wanting. Regrets entered my sleep night after night. I dreamed of old friends as if they'd never exited my life. I was haunted by a past I couldn't forget — a past for which I couldn't forgive myself. Read more...
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