I get it Em. I get why you stay with him. The push, the pull. He’s ok some days, other days you hate him. You HATE him. You fucking hate him. You hate him more than any human you’ve ever fucking hated in your entire life. You don’t understand how to process this much hate, this feeling of absolute disgust, the rage. It boils up from the deep spaces, the places your mothers went when their light had gone inside too.

But why do you feel this way? Especially when tomorrow, it’s going to all be fine again. Like nothing happened. And then the next tomorrow he’s hurt you again. The payment is always pending for your kindness. For the glossing over of your reality another time. Payment is always pending, the interest always growing, the debt never ending.

You can only pretend so much Em. I know why you disappear for days on end. Why you have all the excuses about your health.  They seem to be real now, although the doctors don’t really understand what’s wrong with you. You’ve googled those symptoms to death. Your death. All that can be agreed is it’s some unknown, unspoken, undiscovered issue with inflammation. Your body attacking itself rather than the infection.

We all stand around watching our children play, putting a brave face on it all. The house, the cottage, the cars, the kids. The kids. If you leave who will stop him from saying the shit he says to them. Who will be there in those dark moments when he unleashes his toxic broken soul on their innocent little hearts. So you stay Em, you stay. Every day you nurture the illusions you build to survive, pour them into your body, your beautiful, holy body. And every day your body attacks another part of itself with the hate you hide inside. Who will pay the bill this time.