I should eventually be able to forgive him. Or forgive myself. Or accept. I know I should.

But somehow the only thing I feel now is anger. I am in a deep pit of it. So much so that the only reason I wish he were alive now is so I could channel all this anger towards him. How the mighty fall.

But he is dead, and I still cannot get rid of this rage. I should forgive, but I am unable. I was not born with forgiveness embedded, I already know that. I can justify. I did it with my mother. I can understand a reasonable argument like she was bipolar, she did her best, albeit unarguably not enough, but I cannot forgive or forget. Worse, apparently nowadays, I cannot even move forward. And it’s killing me.

It kills me the amount of useless love I gave him, the excuses I invented to cover for him, the guilt and responsibility I put on myself to justify his actions, as if it were my fault: I was the one who wasn’t clear enough, I was the one who did not tell him how bad it was, I never complained, I should have been more honest and straightforward…but damn, wasn’t I?

If my children were in the same position, even without telling me a single word, would I really not see it? Would I not ask and get to the bottom of it? And worse, everyone around me was complicit. Everyone knew it, and nobody did a single fucking thing. I was utterly alone and every time I even slightly mentioned that things were difficult I was exaggerating, being dramatic, lying.

It’s all lies. Lies we tell ourselves to move forward. And I don’t believe my own lies anymore, so what is left?

Just me, my rage and the words I cannot throw at anybody.