I wish I was in a position to.
I know that is silly and I know I have lots to be grateful for, of course I do. My daughter, my family, the support I get raising my child, my career that I have worked damn, damn hard for. I don’t wish to sound ungrateful.
But, I hate myself.
I hate day after day going home to the house where it happened. I hate having to sit in the room where my trust and self worth got completely annihilated in the worst way by that cowardly, cowardly specimen. I hate seeing my beautiful baby sitting on that very sofa watching CBeebies, or any of my family for that matter.
It makes me feel absolutely sick that my home, which is meant to be my sanctuary, my comforting place has been tarnished with that act. It disgusts me. It also disgusts me that for so long I managed to convince myself that it did not bother me, however in hindsight I can see that was never the case. When I was keeping it to myself, I never went into the room. I would sit upstairs on my own, at the time I remember saying I just wanted space, whereas I can look back now and see that the only reason I avoided downstairs was because I could not face it.
I hate that what he did has seeped into everything, not just my mentality, but also my bloody environment. So tell me, what break do I ever get from it? It is constantly surrounding me, physically as well.
I’m not as lucky as he is. I don’t get to swan off to somewhere else and get to pretend that it never happened. He is, by the way, incredibly lucky.