Dear alcohol and the one who thinks he owns me,

Tonight you won. Really, your battle began this morning. I’m wiped, I’m exhausted, and I’m hurt. So this will be short.

I struggle to defeat you. It feels laughable to even consider it a possibility. Defeat may not, may never be a choice…..but perhaps an occasional victory could be?

Tomorrow I’ll face the physical demons I’m up against. A planned evening with the one who insists he owns me physically. He’s proved he’s right. He’s stronger than me. And I hate him for it.

A literal force to be wreckened with, if only I were better. Stronger. He’s the physical presence of my worst nightmares.

Now, physical intimacy with the one who is supposed to love me, supposed to make me feel safe…my husband…. well, I’m sorry. But when the locational overlap is as significant as, well…my fucking bathroom?

This is where you followed me. Cornered me. Invaded me perceived safe space. Perhaps one of the worst occasions of them all. The one I can truly and definitely define as rape.

My house. My room. My bathroom.

Mine.

Now, any attempted physical intimacy with my husband within my own fucking house triggers the memory…the very real panic that you bring.

So, here we are. And I’m sorry. But faced with the memories and pain of you….well,

I know alcohol is the wrong choice. At least in the disturbingly necessary amounts that I consume it. But I need it. To get though this…

How do I even say it? I can’t assign descriptive words powerful enough to match the feeling.

I hate him. He’s made me worse.

I wish I didn’t have to see him ever again. I wish he didn’t destroy me.

And I wish he didn’t fucking live next door.