I hate him for leaving me like this, leaving me to deal with this. Leaving me alone and cold and with two children to raise all by myself.
I hate him for leaving me unable to be loved, to be held tight, by anyone else. I hate that the stigma follows me around, stains me with its oily blackness, wipes off onto everything I touch, everyone who comes near me.
I hate that its left me so broken, so traumatized, that I don’t even know when my reactions are ‘normal’ and when they’re not. I don’t remember what it was like to be a normal person.
I hate it, that every time I reach for happiness, something from the past seems to pull me away from it, claw at my clothes, wrap its cold bony fingers around my escape route.
I hate that no matter how much I try and break free, this follows me around, everywhere, a shadow of what life could have been, a stench that won’t let me go.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. And I hate that I love him so much, I love him like fire… and that means this still burns, and badly. Because if I really did hate him, it wouldn’t hurt at all.