I hate how difficult it is to get over it. Once I cut someone off, they’re gone for good. No being cordial. No “but people change.” 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 she did, stirring the same anger over and over. Imagining her laughing and unbothered only adds fuel. I wish I could erase it, or at least stop giving it so much power. She is out there sleeping just fine, probably not thinking about it, while I’m stuck carrying resentment and wishing her harm.
Sometimes the rage hits so hard 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. She is free, and I am trapped in the memory, letting it take up space in my head. She was one of the few parasites I’m embarrassed I ever let close. She still irritates me every time I remember her, like a mosquito I can hear but can’t swat. I want to be the kind of person who chooses peace over bitterness. But sometimes spite smothers logic, and letting go feels like letting her win. Maybe the goal isn’t or revenge or forgiveness. It’s actually indifference.