The Things I Won’t Miss

I won’t miss the drunken phone calls, where you call me and belittle me, lie to me, and do everything you can to wind me up, only to pass out not long after and leave me to deal with the arguments that ensue.

The phone calls from bystanders who have found you, and who can’t extract enough information from you to get you to your own home.

The driving around trying to find you when you’ve gotten yourself in trouble.

The accusations.

The denial that your drinking is even a problem.

I won’t miss the way you shut me out of the important stuff, and tell lies about it, knowing that I will discover the truth.

The way you make everything about you, and link everything back to how it affects you.

I won’t miss where you deny knowledge of my traumas and abuse, where you say I’ve made it out to be worse, or say “Well I don’t remember any of that”.

Nor will I miss having to come to break up fights, or having to comfort you when everything falls apart.

I won’t miss the heartache I feel behind closed doors after you’ve sat and poked holes in everything I do, telling me how I’m doing it wrong.

I won’t miss worrying about what to wear when I visit, for fear you make comments about the size or the fit of my clothes.

I won’t miss any of the criticism.

I won’t miss the guilt you make me feel every time I ask for help.

I won’t miss how you treat me like an insubordinate child, even at the age of 28.

I have washed my hands. I am done. This is beyond repair, and it has been for a while. There is more duct tape holding things together than anything else, and it’s just a dirty ball of junk now.

I must go. I’m not sorry.

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