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He Still Gets to Me

He still gets to me.

Just seeing him evokes all the well-placed anger, the displaced anger, the hurt and harm, the utter hatred I am capable of.

I hate him, like I hate my father. And I hate myself for hating anyone, for hating at all. I can psychologize and rationalize my way to empathy, I can know the history and postulate what caused them to be the way they are, having never been taught or modeled how to be a real, feeling human being…but…but…

I am still pissed off. Pissed like hell. I was a bitch to him today and made a remark about his not working. He didn’t respond and honestly, he deserves a lot more vitriol than a snarky remark I make in the hall. He wont’ hear it, can’t hear it. He is a snake in every way.

I see my grandmother muttering under her breath, her lips pursed in anger and as she aged, the lines formed and stayed there. I see her saying, “I hate that man” about the pedophile grandfather.  She lived with him in hatred for so many years, and I am sure this hatred consumed her as she hid the fact that she had tumors and cancer. She let her muttered, under-her-breath anger trap her into a life she didn’t want. I don’t want to be her. I don’t want to be trapped by hatred, no matter how much someone deserves hatred and derision and suffering because of what they’ve done. I just don’t want to end up like that.

What do you do when someone is truly deplorable? How can you heal in the middle of hatred? I hate more that he still gets to me….still turns me into another “not-me” person. Oh sure, this person is not the victim any more, but she is just as powerless to influence his abuse, just as hopeless that anything can change. And she turns into this other-person, this unloving, bitter, hateful, angry person.

I hate that he has that kind of power, and have mixed feeling about it. Of COURSE I feel angry. Of COURSE I have every right to be angry at a lesser human being who was hurtful and destructive for fun, and refuses to evolve or heal or grow. Of COURSE my sense of justice is rankled and torn.

Of course, I am sad. So very sad. What a waste of humanity to spend your life just playing out childhood wounds.

So I do all I can do. I grieve, I cry with all my might, I cry out to God, I cry cry cry. I give him over to God, I hope that God can give him the goodness he needs and feel sorrow that he is so very stuck and incapable. I refuse to just play out childhood wounds, no matter how hard that is, no matter how hard my body cries out, “repeat! repeat” I will find love and keep it. I will receive the good in life.

I will let him get to me and then turn it around. Over and over and over.

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