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May 16, 2009
I still don’t look back fondly. The fact is: I hate you. I hate what you gave me—symptoms to recover from, behaviors to guard against, painful (and sneaky) reminders cropping up unexpectedly. On my better days: I am immensely proud I survived you; on my worst days, I hate myself for what I became for you, or rather for becoming what you wanted me to become, then having to turn around and un-become it, simply to survive, simply to not die. Now, now I wait for the day when I don’t look back at all—when will it come?