I’ve been avoiding him as much as possible. I thought this would be the missing puzzle piece snapping into place, but it doesn’t feel like that—I just have more questions and nowhere to turn. Sometimes I feel scared, like I’ve been left behind in a stranger’s house. Other times, I’m enraged—at him, the lies, the illness. The anger is better—sharper, like a barbed wire wrapped around my hands. I try to hold on because it makes me stronger. But then he starts talking to me, and everything in me gets twisted up and confused. I wish I didn’t feel anything at all.
