Write Faster

Am I hurt? Yes, it hurts. It fucking hurts. I hate that it still has the power to hurt me after all these years.

I thought I was above this. I thought I had erected the emotional walls to prevent this kind of attack on my heart. But I was wrong. So stupidly wrong.

I shouldn't have opened it. I knew better. Fuck, no, forget knew, I know better.

I think one of my dear friends said it best. This is what she wrote me after she saw it.

Holy...fucking...crazy pants...asshole...mother  

fucker....spawn of Satan...life ruiner...dick  

face...cock  sucking...piece of absolute trash this man  

is. I am so so so incredibly glad you shared this with  

me. I always had a terrible picture painted in my head of

him..:now it is crystal clear this man truly is the  

biggest asshole I have ever heard of. My jaw is left  

hanging open right now...wow.

People always think they have an idea of dysfunctional relationships. They think it's something you see on TV, maybe even comedic in a certain light. But no, true dysfunction? Yeah, the sort of shit even Oprah can't get her head wrapped around? Yeah, that shit is dangerous. I'm honestly surprised I didn't die in the living of it.

It is a mistake for anyone to envy me or my life. Photos of my life now do not show the real story of surviving through the years of pain. And that past is still with me, whether I want to carry it or not.

But you have to glean some wisdom from that. That's the only way to get some kind of closure. To ask yourself: What did you learn?

What I've learned is that I'm more resilient and stronger than I know. I only have to look at the scars to remember what I lived through.

But that's not an excuse to tend the rage. Lately, I feel like it's getting out of control. It has a lot to do with the writing and unearthing the demons from their graves. I've started to remember all the things I've tried to repress and the rage comes through the writing. There are hours where my fingers are punching the keys of the keyboard because I want to inflict physical harm in response to the words I am writing.

I am angry. I am pissed. I want to hurt someone. I know who it is.

But no. I'm not going to be physically violent. I have an even better idea. I'm going to use the rage and let it fuel me to do something beautiful. Turn the ugly into art. I'm good at salvaging things why not the past?

I'm going to immortalize the truth into a book. It won't matter how big he is then. He can't muffle my mouth anymore. He can't talk over me. He can't even threaten me, because I'm no longer that powerless, poor girl who didn't have anyone in her corner.

I'm going to use ink and paper to make sure this shit is written down.

And I'm on a time limit. Because he's still alive and I want to make sure he sees what I've accomplished before he dies.

That will be my redemption.