In my 48 years, I have never hated a person as much as I hate difficult child 1. Never. Not even close. The rage and hate is so foreign to me. It is not me. Not me at all. Yet, I live and breathe it, as if it is. And I hate myself for it. I wish I knew how to let the anger go, but I can't figure it out. I'm clueless. So it sits and festers. I'm so emotionally bruised and battered by her lies, manipulations, indifference, the intentional maligning of my character to make herself appear an innocent victim; i'm tired trying to protect the other kids from her and the stress she causes; I'm tired of her never feeling badly about anything she has done to us. Ever. I'm tired of being blamed for everything; I'm tired of her creating new realities to make her truth palatable to herself. I'm tired of it all. 393 more days until I never have to deal with her ever again. I hate myself for this.