To say I hated Alex was an understatement. She had destroyed my life, stripped me of everything I cherished. I lost my home, my belongings, my money, my security — even my happiness. I was nothing but a shell because of her. I was starting from scratch while she was still living in her so‑called dream house with her nice car and her normal life.
The only thing she lost was income — my share of the bills and the money she made “taking care” of Rowan. I heard she’d gotten a new job, believe it or not, as a recovery coach. A recovery coach. The universe really does have a sense of humor. She was still using drugs and drinking daily. How exactly was she qualified to help anyone stay sober?
Every day I faced reminders of what she’d done. I had to replace all my furniture, clothing, and housewares — everything she’d taken and sold to the highest bidder. My hatred grew with every memory of the life I’d built and the little things that made it mine.
And I no longer had Rowan. He was living in a group home because I couldn’t care for him. I was alone, furious, and desperate for some way to bleed out the anger before it swallowed me whole.
Eventually, I came up with an idea. I took an old picture of her and edited it — added names that suited her — and had it blown up to nearly poster size. When I picked it up, the clerk laughed and asked what she’d done to deserve it. I just giggled and raised my eyebrows. There were too many answers, and none I wanted to say out loud.
I hung the poster inside my junk‑closet door. Not out in the open — just tucked away, waiting. At first, I opened the door several times a day to curse at her. I told her how much I hated her, how I wanted her to feel even a fraction of what she’d done to me.
The DPPC report finally came in. She was accused of felony assault and battery, felony assault on a disabled individual, and causing a disabled person stress and fear. Three felonies — but only civil infractions. It was up to the police to pursue, and it wasn’t “important enough” for them.
So Alex walked away. No consequences. Nothing.
After everything she’d done, she still got to walk away clean. The depression came back hard, but I kept up my daily ritual at the shrine I’d built for her. Her picture was a reminder of what she got away with — and everything I lost.
I kept it pinned there for months. Eventually, I took it down and burned it. I watched the flames curl around her face, turning her smile and the names I’d given her into black ash. It gave me a flicker of satisfaction.
But the truth was simple: burning her picture didn’t burn the damage she left behind.
And that was the part I had to learn to live with.
If only the damage burned as easily as the photo,
K
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 