Dear Bex,

I resent you for the childhood I had. I resent you for your impatience. For being so scared of doing my homework without being beaten. For all the kitchen cabinet drawers and bathroom doors you slammed (whether or not my toddler sized fingers and hands were in them). For slapping me. For kicking me. For the wooden spoon whippings for a C on a math test when you weren’t around to help me learn it or realize I had learning disabilities to begin with. For all the bruises. I resent you for not feeling safe at home. Or knowing what home was supposed to feel like. I resent you for being ashamed of me. I resent you for all the sex I started to have when I was 13 to prove to myself that I could be loved. I resent you for my wanting to beat the shit out of everyone. I resent you for making me feel so fucking worthless, I almost settled for a man that I not only didn’t love, but one who would have killed me if I had stayed. But mainly, I resent you because I want to forgive you and I dont know how.

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