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I hate him.

I god damn fucking hate him.

I hate our stupid dog, I hate the god damn cat, I just hate…

Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.

The rage isn’t so quiet tonight.

I hate who I am becoming.

He does nothing around here.

N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

Oh, he’s “functioning.”

He goes to work faithfully everyday and brings home that pay check.

Big.

Fucking.

Deal

At this point, I’d rather live in a box with a man who loved me.

Who dreamed with me.

Who laughed and cried and was facing life together with me.

The way you expect when you get married.

I’d rather be hobos riding the rails if it meant my husband touched me sweetly, kissed me gently and cared whether I was safe. I’d take getting beat up by the conductor for hiding in a boxcar over being beat up emotionally every. Single. Day of life with an alcoholic.

There’s probably not a scenario you could offer me that I wouldn’t trade marriage to an alcoholic for if it meant I was loved and seen, valued and respected.  If it meant my family and I were together emotionally, not just physically living in the same house together separately.

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