'Behind closed doors my mother was a monster.'

Iused to pray she wouldn't come home. I'd hide in the bathroom , barely breathing. Listening for the sound of my mother's keys, the slam of the front door, the sharp staccato of heels on polished floorboards. My body knew the signs before my brain could name the fear .

To the outside world, we were enviable. We lived in an exclusive suburb, in a stunning home behind white walls and manicured hedges. I wore crisp uniforms to a private school.

My mother was beautiful, glamorous, articulate, always perfectly put together. The kind of woman strangers admired in cafés. But behind the closed door of the house, I lived in constant fear.

My mother had borderline personality disorder . Her rage didn't just ripple, it roared. She didn't need a reason to explode. A sideways glance could le