I am still angry. My therapist said its okay to still be angry, that I reserve the right to be. I never learned how to feel anger the right way...I only become reminded of my father slamming the front door and the soft sobs as my mother begs him to calm down. Anger is often justified, but where the **** do I put it? I am not my father. Even though I'd like to I can't scream at you and I can't slam a door on what you did to me. Even though I'd like to I can't go back and stop your hand from hitting me across the face, I can't kick and scream until you got off of me. You're not my father but you were so much worse. You never showed anger, you only pinned me down with your words, and with your disgustingly muscular arms. You left me crying quietly in your bathroom while I try to cover up what you had done to me. You made me never want to leave because you were the world, and I'd be dead without the world. Well, I didn't die. I became addicted to the rattling of a pill canister and I shed the weight you put on me in only a few weeks. But you left me kicking and screaming inside. And I am still angry.