dear you,
11/28/2005 07:19 p.m.
I hate you. I absolutely hate that I can't walk into my home - the home I've lived in for more than ten years - without thinking of you and what you did to me. I hate that I can't step foot on that side of the living room. I hate that I can't stand to be in that bathroom for more than two minutes. That if someone were to knock on the door while I was in there, the threads that hold my brain in my skull would break. That I nearly get sick taking a shower in the shower I was comfortable in for years. That Eric can't touch me certain ways or say certain things because that's what you did, that's what you said. That joking or playing or anything at all can make me think of you and what happened. That I can't walk through the mall without wondering if I'll see you or what you'd do to me if I did. And I hate the fucking police. How sweet they were, how concerned. And they never fucking called. I have no idea where you are, if you know that they know, how you feel if you know. I have no idea. And I fucking hate that. I hate you. I used to treasure my trips home to see my amazing family, my beautiful nieces and nephews, my supportive grandparents. And now I fear coming home. My cat can rustle around and I scream out in fear. I can't sleep alone. I can't go into a store by myself. I can't go anywhere without Eric. That people laugh at me for being such a child and I can't tell them why I refuse to go alone. That I have to give up parts of my freedom, parts of my peace of mind. I hate you. I don't think I say that enough.
I am currently Bothered