I haven’t been out today. I couldn’t face getting up. I am weary from crying and vomiting from sheer hurt. And Mike’s attempts to bully me by text and email.

He thinks someone we shall refer to as Malice was hurt by him because they tried to hit him. But hurt doesn’t lash out, it folds inward, it seeks to self protect. I feel bent over wih pain, as though a sack is hung around my neck.

I took my last post down because he didn’t like his name being there. His name isn’t copyrighted so I’m free to use it. I cancelled a social date with a friend because I couldn’t stop crying and didn’t want to be brave. I saw friends yesterday and am tired of being told he is an idiot and doesn’t realise how wonder I am. I’m sick of hearing it. I just want to lie in my bed with my daughter and chat.

To make things much worse, he brought up things that are painful reminders of my sister being so very ill and how very badly a vicar behaved before and after her death. He also lacked tact when my Dad died, and I never mentioned it. I should have done. It did him no favours nor me.

It seems Mike just can’t get that I am so hurt. He thinks it’s ok to keep on being unpleasant. It’s not, as I’m falling apart.

I bought food for the both of us and for his lunch at work. A lot will perish before I can eat it. Doesn’t matter to him.

My nerves hurt from the windchimes next door. Relentless. It’s cruelty. It frightens me that people can be so wicked.

By Chrisssie Morris Brady

I've read poetry since I was nine and have written creatively since I was fourteen (probably long before that). After writing book reviews and social comment, I decided I wanted to write poetry. I have no formal training, but I surround myself with poets and their writing. I am honing my craft.
I have two published collections which I don't feel good about, but have been published by and other publications. I live on the south coast of England with my daughter. I am seriously ill.

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