I hate how hard it is to get over it. Part of the problem is that once I cut someone off, they’re gone for good. No “civil,” no “maybe later.” Jenny in 7th grade was my first proof: I wrote her off, and she turned out to be an awful person. That’s why I trust my judgment, and why part of me thinks this vendetta is justified.
My mind keeps replaying what they did, stirring the same anger over and over. Imagining them laughing and unbothered only adds fuel to it. I wish I could erase it or at least stop giving it so much power. They’re out there sleeping just fine, probably not thinking about it, while I’m stuck carrying resentment and wishing them harm.
Sometimes the rage hits so fast I want to fire off a mean text just to relieve it. Texting feels therapeutic because it tells my nervous system, “That was real. That mattered. There should be a consequence.”
What makes it worse is knowing it only hurts me. They’re free, and I’m trapped in the memory, letting it take up space in my head and heart. I want to be the kind of person who chooses peace over bitterness. But sometimes anger feels louder than logic, and letting go feels like letting them win. Still, I know holding on isn’t justice. It’s exhausting.
I admire how easily my eldest daughter can brush things off, just like her dad. I’m glad she didn’t inherit my petty genes. She’s already over last year’s friendship squabbles, while I’m still holding a grudge against a couple of teenagers.