Life, not Death for Christmas

I’m sick of death.

I’m sick of this hell I’m in.

I’m sick of what I’ve lost, and who caused it.

It’s Christmas, and I’d like to be in my house.  The house that was supposed to be mine, in this marriage.  The house that is the sacrifice, like everything else has been a fucking sacrifice.

I need to live in a house where I feel comfortable.

It’s not this one.

He did this to me.

He did this on purpose, maybe so I will die.  That was said to me not long ago.  He did this to me after 29 years together.  The first thing he killed was my voice.  The second thing he killed were my dreams.  I don’t have any hope left.  I wrote a novel at Thanksgiving and I conveniently forgot to make the dinner.  You know why? This isn’t my house.  The kitchen makes me gag.

It’s his.  His parents.  Not ours.  He has fixed it so I lost everything I ever worked for.  Everything.  He has fixed it so I am surrounded by ugliness instead of beauty.

He has killed my soul.


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