[Originally posted to my blog ‘Point of Tears’ on Dec 20, 2004.]
I hate the word “victim.”
I hate the looks I keep getting.
I hate that I’m probably imagining all those looks I keep getting.
I hate needing help.
I hate people thinking I need help.
I hate the pats on my back. Whether they be for sympathy, support, or congratulations.
I hate that I can’t take the sympathy, support, or congratulations.
I hate being afraid every time I turn off the lights.
I hate imagining boogie men in the night.
I hate having to lock my car doors.
I hate this feeling of being weak.
I hate it when people tell me a good job.
I hate that he got away.
I hate that he’s still out there.
I hate the fact that I couldn’t wear my Santa hat because the damn pompom bopped me in the back of the head, freaking me out with every step.
I hate the fact that my mother and daughter insisted we move. I feel like he won because of this.
I hate the fact that my daughter can’t fall asleep without me in the room.
I hate the fear in her eyes when she’s not sure what a noise is.
I hate the fact that she can’t be in another room without me or my mother in it at night.
I hate that Christmas passed me by and I barely noticed.
I hate that I’m more afraid than I could ever admit to.
I hate that the only place I can let go is in the counseling center.
I hate that I’m going to see a counselor.
I hate when people open up and tell me about their experience. . .that doesn’t really even come close to what I went through.
I hate that I went through that at all.
Just venting. Too many things frustrating me right now.