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.”