As I said in my last post, when in Rome… you know the saying.

I didn’t like it there. It was like being on a permanent vacation in hell. I’m sure the actual city of Rome is lovely but the metaphorical one, for me at least, was not where I wanted to be and I was miserable every moment I forced myself to stay there.

And it was a choice. By the time I found the courage to pack up my belongings and leave it all behind, I was well into adulthood and could have left at any time, really.

I had moved out of my childhood home the day after I turned 18 and had I been wiser and had more courage, I’d have never, ever looked back. I’d have ran as if Nero himself were burning the place to the ground and fiddling merrily watching it all.

But I didn’t because I didn’t know I could. It wasn’t until I was given permission by a stranger who wrote a book that I stumbled across called Toxic Parents that it even occurred to me that I could walk away and never look back.

So I did. Well, I walked away but I do still look back in horror at what I left behind.