Maybe I do

You once asked me if I hated you. Hate doesn’t even begin to describe the emotions I feel about you. Hate would be easy. Hate wouldn’t be wondering every single day why my own mother can’t love me as I am. Hate wouldn’t be wanting to spend most days curled up in a ball asleep. Hate would be productive. Hate would find a way to express itself. But hate requires energy and I have none left.

Some day I might have the energy to properly hate; to properly feel the anger that is rightfully mine, but has been suppressed and undermined at every turn. It bubbles up occasionally, but I’m not ready for it yet. I can’t…