I am not a writer. I am not pretending to be.
I wish I was a writer because it would be so beautiful to put into words what I am feeling.
That’s not a beautiful word.
That’s a crappy word. But that is how I am feeling. I am filled with anxiety at this very moment and my heart feels like I just ran a marathon.
All because he is here. All because he makes my blood boil. How is this SHITTY feeling a blessing in disguise?
I lock myself in my room when he comes over to see the kids. I literally want to go downstairs and claw his face off for all the pain his choices have caused.
One bright spot—the kids are being terrible to him. My bit of instant karma.