Dear M,

I hate you. I know I shouldn’t. I know I am supposed to be grateful that you helped shape the person I am today. But that is total BS. I hate you. And the worst part is, I never told you this. Of all the things I wish I ever said during our marriage, through our divorce, or after it was all over—I regret the most not telling you how much I hated you. And you will never know. Sitting here as the woman I am now, I can finally look at the carcass of our marriage and tell you exactly why I hate you.

I hate you for allowing me to look like a fool. I hate that you encouraged me to plan a big wedding so that everybody in the entire world would share our special day. I hate that when it was all over you told me you only married me to get out of the barracks and “because you thought you were supposed to.” I hate you for that. Not only did you have no right to ask me to be your wife – you had absolutely no right to follow through with it if you knew you didn’t want to be married to me.

I hate that I was so excited to become your wife. I hate that I took your name. I hate that, for the rest of my life, I will have to fill in your name as a previously used name.

I hate that I let you into my life and allowed myself to be so vulnerable to you. I hate that you had the audacity to hold me tight, call me a survivor, and tell me that nobody would ever hurt me ever again in your strong arms. I hate you even more for the night that you used your strength against me.

I hate that you told me you loved me while you were pursuing other women. I hate that I stood by you longer than I should. I hate that I sat beside you through marriage counseling. Even more, I hate that I stuck around while you tried to justify your actions and went to Sex Addicts Anonymous. And I really hate when your sponsor came over and explained that sometimes you would “relapse.” It’s not alcohol. It’s not pot. It was the most intimate thread that holds a marriage together: fidelity.

And after all of those promises to change, I will never forget the moment I saw the letter you wrote to Her telling her that you wanted to start a life together. I will never, ever forgive you for the rest of my life for that moment the entire world disappeared and all I remember was the ground that swallowed me up. I hate you for that. Yet, I hate how calm and collected I was when I spoke with you afterwards. I hate that I packed you a bag of clothes and food for the night. I hate that when we met to fill out the separation papers the next day and there were no tears. There were no angry words. Our voices were always inside voices. I hate that I didn’t tell you off. That was when I was supposed to tell you that I hated you. But I did not.

And I hate that you called me on our anniversary to tell me you had just eloped. And when it all fell apart, I hate that you called me for support. I hate that you wanted me to help you fill out your divorce papers to wife #2. I hate I am your “first” ex-wife.

I hate that you know you messed up. I hate the apologies. I hate when you call after your therapy sessions to tell me you finally know why you did what you did. Or that your therapist said to tell me how you feel. That it will somehow lessen your guilt. I hate that I still have to hurt for you to find peace. I have not found it. And I hate you for thinking you deserve it over me.

I hate that I still find things that remind me of us. Just yesterday I was cleaning and found our matted photo frame people signed at our wedding. I took it out with the trash today. I hate those little things. Speaking of things—I hate that you let me mod podge Christmas tree decorations with our wedding pictures. On the first anniversary of our divorce I took them behind my house and smashed them to pieces with a hammer. I hate that I cried.

I hate that you took my dreams. I hate that you took what should have been a once-in-a-life experience of getting married and merging two lives into one when you didn’t want it. And now, I hate that every man is judged through my memory of you. I know it’s not fair. I know you were just a bad apple. But I can’t help but wait for the bottom to fall out again.

But a few good things grew from that dead carcass. I am no longer the woman who stood silently behind my man. I am now a woman who stands with my head held high beside an equal. I know what commitment means. I know when to stand firm with both of my two feet dug deep into the ground; I also know when to quietly move out of the way.

So I don’t wish you well. I don’t care if you find happiness. Because I hate you.

ME, age 27