I hated him once.
I thought I got over it. I thought.
Every time I see him I’m riddled with anxiety and despair.
Maybe he’s the cause of some of my problems. Maybe.
I hate him again.
For different reasons. Or maybe the same.
I can’t hunt or fish or sleep without his face appearing, without his underwear appearing, without his hand lingering too close.
I want to think of something remarkable to say — to explain the pain, to help others, to get it all out and make you understand. The words don’t come.
I think it’s out of my mind and then a night like this. A night like so many others, when I’m minding my own business and all of a sudden he’s there. Like he was so many other times. He’s running his hands down my arms and across my skin and I have goosebumps and I play it off like he’s just drunk, like I’m just drunk, like it will all go away.
It doesn’t go away.
I want to ask for an apology but I don’t want to upset you any more than he’s already done.
So I sit and I write and I wait for the words to come, the words that will explain what he’s done and what it’s done to me and what it will undoubtedly do to you.
Maybe he will stop. Maybe he will make you happy again and he will stop torturing me in my dreams and maybe everything will be okay. Maybe therapy will help and maybe I’ll get over it, like everyone has told me to do for so long. Maybe I’ll stop hating him again.
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