It is nearly 3am as I write this. I’ve been in bed for hours, but I can’t sleep. My mind is too busy, going over and over a series of events which happened almost four years ago. I spent today, a Sunday, not focused on my daughter, but going over old emails with my lawyers, divorce documents, contemporaneous accounts of abuse that I’d written years ago, trying to tell myself that yes, it did happen as I remember. No, I am not going mad.
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