They say you shouldn't let hate fester, but I hate you.

Try as I might, I can't stop it. In meditation, they say you have to feel your feelings. You can't push them out; you must sit with them. I feel waves of hate, waves of despair that I let you so utterly ruin me. I hate you. I will not forgive you. I wish the furies upon you. I wish the fate of Prometheus for you. I wish you to suffer daily. I wish you to know it was me that summoned hellfire and demons to torment you. I want you to hurt, because I hurt so badly for so long, and you didn't care.

I hate you. I am so mad at myself, and I don't know that I'm mad at myself in spite of you or because of you. How could I be so stupid? How could I sign such a lease? How could I have been so hurried, so care careless? How could I have made so many missteps along the way? Well, because I trusted you. I trusted you to stay with me, to care for me. I trusted you to be my partner. I'm mad at myself for expecting that, because you never were. I expected those things because I'd constructed a fantasy. But you were never good to me, and I hate you.

I should have hated you early on. I should have known to hate you from the moment you chose his side, the side of your friend sexually harassing me. I should have know when you sided with scum, and acted like I was the problem. But I was in too deep, too long. So now I'm left to hate you.

I hate you for the horrific way you mentally tormented me, as if a pandemic wasn't enough. You made me jump through hoops, to play your little germophobic games. You counted how long I washed my hands. You always noticed whether I'd used hand sanitizer. You wouldn't even touch me if I'd gone out in public, until after I'd showered. I couldn't touch my face, or my hair. I couldn't eat finger food. You would scold me, judge me, shun me, if I accepted food offered to me by a friend. Your hawk-like eye would follow me, every touch of my phone, you watched, waiting for me to wash my hands again. I could do no right. And you'd shun me for being germy, for being unclean. You made me feel as disgusting as a piece of refuse clinging to your shoe. In your eyes, I was trash.

You demanded everything from me. You demanded everything be done your way. I couldn't use your coffee grinder, for fear I would break it. You demanded the bed be a certain way, for your sleep. You demanded the cups be rim up, and the couch be at a 45 degree angle, and the U Haul be loaded just the way you wanted. You demanded everything be plastic bagged: chips, masks, wet wipes, trail mix, anything, all taken from it's original packaging and zip-locked. You tortured me with your demands. You made me live in fear of pushing you over the edge.

I saw what happened when you went over the edge. I didn't now how to handle it. One time, something touched something else it wasn't supposed to... a fabric touched a dirty piece of concrete. You were nearly catatonic for days with fear, anxiety, worry. I cared for you. I soothed you. I reasoned with you. I listen to you, supported you, helped you. I gave you so much, but you never gave anything back. You took and took and took and took. You drained me of all my life force.

And when I needed something in return, you refused. I needed love. I needed care. I needed you to pretend to care about anything about me, the books I read, my garden, my family, my crafts. You cared about nothing. You didn't care about me. After two years, you couldn't remember my brother's name. You'd spend many evenings with him. But you certainly knew you didn't like him. And you made sure I knew it too. I hate you. I hate you for not remembering my brother's name.

In the end, after months of seeing almost only you, after a year of a world in pandemic, you stopped touching me. You acted like I was disgusting. Like I was germy, unclean, unlovable. Unwantable. You made me think there was something wrong with me. And when I finally, finally, finally melted down, you blamed me for being selfish. I will never forgive you. I hate you.

If anything you say about your dad was true, it's a good thing he's dead. He'd be disgraced to see the pathetic excuse for a man that you've grown into. You're unimpressive, emotionally and mentally unequipped to handle this world. It's very lucky your mother has so much money; you'll need it to keep you afloat, because you have no prospects. I hate you and I am disgusted, repulsed by you.

I hate you. For your emotional abuse and gaslighting. For the way you stole years from me. For the convoluted, arduous housing situation you made me extricate us from. I hate you. I'm not proud to say how long I will burn with this hatred for you. You've ruined me. I become a little bit more of myself again every day, but you broke me in a way I didn't know I could be broken. I hate you. I pray for every woman who falls into your path. May you run away as fast as you can.

You'll only receive email when they publish something new.

More from nam-err-uh-bee
All posts