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I’ve spent the last hour journalling about everything I’ve missed out on, how all my hopes and dreams for my life have been smashed. About how I hope he is rotting in hell. About how I would kill him myself if he wasn’t already dead. About how I’ve tried almost everything I can think of to heal, including decades of therapy, but retraumatising events have happened and set me back every f*cking time. I’ve punched a pillow in the last hour, imagining it’s his body in the morgue, where I last saw him. My abusive mother can go to hell too. I hate them both, so much.
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- 8 months ago
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