It was the very thing that had kept me alive for ten years.

Through every escalating threat, every slammed door, every violent night, some ancient vigilant part of my nervous system had stayed on watch, reading the room, bracing for the blow, keeping me ready — and it was largely thanks to that exhausting, hyper-alert watchfulness that I had survived at all.

That part of me was not my enemy.

It was my oldest and most loyal protector, and it did not know, yet, that its job was over.

You cannot be angry at a guard dog for still barking at shadows the week after the war ends; the dog kept you alive through the war, and it will stand down when it finally believes the war is truly over, and not one moment before, no matter how you shout at it.