Fury hurts

More dreams last night: we were at a resort and I came back to our room and he had packed all his things and left. Rather than being glad I was desperate to join him as I so often was, because that would mitigate my punishment for whatever infraction had made him angry in the first place. I called him and ran for the airport.

I am desperately furious. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. I am furious to have lost as much as I have lost and I am furious to be poking around in dusty rooms with bad light, wondering if I can afford a nicer place to live. I am furious to be depending on my parents for so much, as if I were a child who just had to climb on the monkeybars the wrong way and now I'm paying the price. They are not acting that way, but -- well, that's complicated.

When I had my broken shoulder, the X-ray technician looked at the break and asked if I played football. It had been broken with such brutal strength and violence. My shoulder hurts every day. I put my purse on my shoulder and I feel it slip into the hollow created where the bones fused together sloppily. I sleep on my right side and wake up in pain, slowly rolling over so I can ease it straight; somehow it gets very achey if it's squished into the mattress in the wrong way. It's a constant reminder of what I did to myself. Oops. I mean, what he did to me, right?

No... I'm not sure I mean that at all.