Angry
12:31 a.m.

I don't want to be angry anymore. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of feeling betrayed. You hurt me. Badly. But I'm better than this. Better than jealousy. I have to be; it's how I've survived. But you're going to want to talk about it when you come home. Apologize for the millionth time and tell me how you never ever wanted to hurt me. Well whoop de doo. I never wanted to be hurt. We don't always get what we want, and I should know.

But, again, I don't want to be angry. I've been there and done that, and I'm miserable. I want to forgive you, so we can move on. But I don't know how. No one's ever taught me how to have a healthy relationship, and I've told you that. I've told you so much of what's happened to me. I told you about my father, and my family, and what I've somehow lived through, albeit with serious emotional problems that remain undiagnosed because my mother is so deeply sunk in denial. I don't need your shit on top of everything else.

But I love you. I do. As much as I can, because for me love hurts, and it's so hard to let someone in. I did. For you. And you will never fully understand how scary and painful and important that was. It was terrifying, and I did it. For you. And now this. You were supposed to be the one who proved me wrong. The one who stuck it out and played the hero. You were supposed to be wonderful and sweet like you always were before this, and love me forever. I feel so strange, writing that, but that, I must admit, was what I felt then. That you would last. That we would last. And I think we can still. But I'm so afraid. And this time it'll be so much harder to take that risk of being with you, because you've been tested and you failed. And I can't walk away. So is it true love, meant to be? Or am I weak like my mother and aunts and grandmother, too afraid to let go?

I wish I could pretend it didn't matter.

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