For many years now – I don’t know how many – but many, I have resisted.
The words that have swirled in my head.
The emotions that have whispered in my heart.
I didn’t want to let the words out.
I didn’t want to give the emotions credence.
I may have heard them in my head.
Felt them in my heart.
But I refused them.
More, much more, for me than for me.
In fact, entirely for me.
I knew allowing those words would do far more damage to me than to him.
Allowing those emotions would wound me more than him.
But then the other day.
When I was seeing my therapist and I recapping the past four to six weeks litany of outbursts and verbal attacks by him.
I don’t cry that often when talking about him.
Anymore that is.
I used to.
I used to cry a lot.
Often sitting alone in my car in the driveway.
But for the most part, those tears are all dried up.
But the post holidays, I guess.
All that pressure, stress and expectation rolled up in a month, like some sort of overstuffed anxiety burrito.
So I was crying softly and the words kept echoing in my head, kept banging against the walls of my hart, until I said, nearly in a whisper,
“I hate him.”