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​​​«What I think and feel, what I am - she underlined the last three words-  doesn’t hold water, Hope wrote.
She was taking part in a workshop for women who’d been in abusive relationships and the participants had been instructed to meditate and then write down their «awarenesses», as the facilitator had phrased it. Hope wasn’t familiar with meditating or with the language the facilitator used ; the word facilitator itself made her uncomfortable, being the kind of jargon government employees used to puff themselves up. 
She had «shared» ( another word applied liberally in the room with the synthetic carpet and reminder on a wall that it was scent free) with the group that she’d been mentally and physically abused by her ex-husband, an alcoholic, and that her father had also been an alcoholic. «My mum took it all on her back «, she told them.
When Arlene, the facilitator, announced the lunch break a number of women banded together to go to a nearby restaurant, one of a chain that served deep dish pizza and appetizers like deep fried brie and mushroom caps stuffed with ham and processed cheese. Hope needed to do some...

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