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Jan. 11th, 2010 | 11:08 pm
mood: angry angry

"You were a fucking crazy asshole, you know that, right?" My hands are gripping my head, stress easily visible as I stare into the sand, frantic eyes. I feel you stiffen, not saying a word. I'm attacking you. I guess this is one of my angry moments. I sort of wish I could hit you. I know if I perseverate on that fact, I'll just get more angry, and I can't handle the anger mixed with sadness right now.

"I didn't even mean to look at those emails. It was a fucking accident. I went to see how far back my emails on my college server went, and there they were. It's so fucking ironic that every time I stumble on this shit, it's an accident at the worst possible moment." I laugh, but my laugh is filled with anger and tension, my stomach knotted, so much I can't even relax it, now that I know it's there. You stare at me, helpless, and feeling like shit. I get some sick satisfaction with that. "Those were... those were sent at a time when things weren't the best."

I laugh again and shaking my head, standing up suddenly, turning to you to glare, pointing my finger accusingly, "Fuck you. You know what that shit does to me now? It's not like it used to be, I'm certainly not crying, but I'm upset. I see those emails now and I know, without a doubt, how goddamn sick you were. I have this utter clarity I know I lacked, and it makes me... shit, it makes me sick. I get physically ill reading this crap." I watch you get angry, defensive of course, shouting back,
"Then why the fuck are you reading it? Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I have to! I want to get out these years of bottled up frustration and hate towards you! I want to have a fucking screaming match with you because I know without a doubt that I'm right! You deleted my GODDAMN livejournal days before I was going to order a hard copy. Do you know what that fucking did to me? Sure, I had excuses for why it didn't matter, but you deleted years of my life. The effect you had on me permeates across years. YEARS. You ingrained yourself into my life, burrowed like a tick, and you left your fucking scar."

My hands are balled into fists, my knuckles turning white, and I can feel my nails digging into my palms so much I'm pretty sure it might start bleeding. My eyes are blurring, tears welling, though from anger and tension, not from any real sadness. Today I'm here with hate. I want no guidance from you, I want release, "You know I haven't had sex with anyone since you? You know why?" I glare, getting closer, yelling still, "Because I feared touching another person. I would tense up at anyone even so much as hugging me or holding my fucking hand. You took what wasn't yours, you scarred my life. My fucking life, you asshole! Do you get that?! Does that sink in?!" My voice is straining, given I'm sick right now anyways, and you get up, taller than I am, but not even slightly intimidating to me right now, "You think I don't know that?! You think I could look back on those letters and be alright? I fucked up, I won't deny that. I did awful, terrible things, and no apology or reparations would ever begin to make up for that shit. I live with that. And I'm not saying that to make you feel bad or anything like that, because you won't, and you shouldn't. I'm saying that because you need to know I suffered, even just a little. I deserved it all."

I'm shaking. My entire body is trembling with rage, heartache, sadness, anger, resentment. I think right now that getting some intense therapy would be a great thing. If she ever tells me to pretend like I'm talking to you, the therapist, I'll bring in these damned journal entries.

"Fuck you." I spit out the words like venom, removing it from my body. I feel no guilt for any pain you have. I feel no consolation for it. I want to erase this from my body and my soul, and I can't. I carry this with me, and I have no idea how to ask for help, or how to ease this burden. All I know is that my back hurts, and I feel so distant from the rest of humanity. Maybe a support group would be great. Maybe I'd just feel even worse. You know me and my emotions. I'm so goddamn logical with everything, it wouldn't work.

And so I turn, walking away from you as fast as I can, moving faster in the sand than I should be. The ocean is dark and terrible today, but I know why. The sky threatens me, and I glare at it, daring it. One more fucking thing I need. One last fucking thing I want.

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