Life seems to be measured best in approximates currently.
I have a difficult time explaining that I am
fine, sad, good, grieving, angry, or relieved.
Approximate values, however, can be assigned to the various feelings.  

Approximating allows me to change.  To fluctuate.
To estimate something that may change at a later time.
This works because I am nearly every conflicting feeling
all rolled into one.  
Conflicted is perhaps the only feeling that is consistent.  
Conflicted is my stalwart feeling.
My rock.
It is always there.
  No matter what.

I love him.  I hate him.

I need him.  I do not want him.

I trust him.  He hurts me.

conflict.  Conflict.  CONFLICT.  

No matter how you shape it, spell it, or write it; it is there.

Chances are, it is him.  In my gut I feel it.  
And from that feeling I know that death
is  the worst feeling a stomach can own.
With each moment of decay,
that rotting feeling in my own body grows.  
His decay is my decay.
I cannot eat, drink, or sleep.  
I am terrified that in my sleep
I will not wake up and in that time we will meet.

More alive than ever before; he is in my nightmares.
His flesh makes my own creep with fear.
He is touching me, I feel his hands.  
They are in my sleep and reaching towards me.

Once awake I am sad.
And I am guilty.
I survived and I fear I did not do enough to save him.
I did not make him a better father.
A better husband.
Nor a better human.  
That one more chance I withhold.
Buried beneath my fears, his chance  will die.

Could I have done something more?  

Loved him better?

Loved him differently?

Hated him completely?

My head and my heart are conflicted.
And my memories are conflicted too.  

I remember the man who bought me a treasured doll.
I remember the man who brought me ice cream home from the store. 
 I remember a man that patted me on the head.  
I remember the man who gave me my love of reading.
  I remember the man who gave me my first dog.  

And then...

I remember that same man who destroyed my favorite doll.
Who starved me for doing wrong.  
Who brutally ***** me.  
Who tore up my favorite books.
  Who killed my beloved dog.

*And then I am conflicted.  
And I hurt.