I miss you already. I'm so sorry I can't see you. Even if not for now, I'm sorry that it's possibly just as likely that we can't even meet in this life. I'm sorry. I wish so much that things were different.
I adore you.
2025 is a year of realization. Of awakening, almost. I've been perceptive all my life, but finding out what I know now in May has led to my resentment reaching its peak. Hate, even. I've been a doormat for over two decades now from the emotional abuse, and I've had it. I need to escape. I alternate between wanting to throw and break things and scream, to sob and give up and die, to tempering myself and wanting to push through it all and wanting to live for once, even out of spite. Becoming more outspoken this year, even in general, is so foreign to me, but I don't want to give up when I know that I haven't done anything good with my life. Even the accomplishments I've made are too far off into the past now. I'm done. I have to demonstrate much more resilience than I'd want or like to.
I need to get out.