#journaliing

It’s not just that you hate me. It’s hearing horror stories about the way your family treated you and the way they continue to treat you. It’s you being enraged in confronting them, but not so much so that you’d hate them.

You hate me?

It’s not just that you hate me. It’s hearing you manage to tell your father you love him in the middle of an explosive argument--even though he once wished death upon you. It’s you being able to bite your tongue when it comes to your mother, even after all the times she never came to your defense.

You hate me?

It’s not just that you hate me. It’s you not extending me that same courtesy when we argue. The way you can’t wait. The way it’s the first insult off your lips. I become every name in the book but my own. You don’t even try to hold it in.

You hate me?

It’s not just that you hate me. It’s me being too angry to eat, too hurt to sleep, too tired to think. It’s me being all of those things--and rightfully so--and still not being able to say those words back to you. Not even if it is just to hurt you.

It’s not just the words. You hate me. It’s everything it implies.