Half an hour. Half an hour of being able to think of something else would be blissful, in fact that is really all that I want. You know, I don’t like this eating away at me, I don’t like it at all. I don’t like having to spend my day thinking about it until I cry and shake whenever I am on my own, three minutes spent sobbing in a bathroom, anxiety so ferocious that I end up being physically sick before I leave the room. I don’t like the feeling in my stomach that tells me that he feels he’s gotten away with it, sitting in pub gardens laughing and joking with mates, acting as if he’s not done anything, or worse, if he’s got someone else to fall for his act and does the same to them. I feel horrifically guilty about the prospect of that happening, it’s unbelievable.
I hate him so much but my god there is an overwhelming need for me to make it known, known just how hated he is.
A rapist. An abusive, fake, awful rapist.
My love for him seemed to switch overnight with no effort. From all encompassing overwhelming love to pure, unfiltered hatred of a huge level. A level I didn’t even realise I was capable of even reaching, you know? I hate, HATE him for what he did to me. I want to ruin him and completely rip apart him with a character assassination, just like he did to me. I want him to be as scared as I was, with no one to turn to.
I want him broken, because the rape broke me. How is that fair? I am the one who did nothing.