Life after trauma is the recurring need to feel something—or to feel nothing—and finding, at the end of the journey, that it’s possible to fail at both.
I keep trying to start fights with the people who hurt and betrayed me. I write text messages and then delete them. I know it doesn’t accomplish anything. I can hardly express the amount of anger and emptiness I feel, and when I come close, I may as well be spitting onto a burning building. They can’t empathize or understand or produce a genuine apology. Even then, I’m not sure any of that would be enough. My life is permanently damaged. I can recover, somewhat, but I will never be fine. Maybe I want them to know that, above anything else. Or maybe—maybe I hope the guilt will rip them apart.
Until There’s Nothing Left (via heroes-get-made)
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