Getting better

It's amazing how much I thought I had healed. I thought I found safety and happiness, That I was moving past all the hurt from before. But it just snuck it's way into this home. Until every corner was wallpapered in hurt. Until entering every room felt like walking onto the firing line. "In the kitchen watch for him throwing dishes, In the hallway he'll push you down or throw boots at you. He'll kick the bathroom door down if you lock it but you can hide in the shower at his mom's house because he won't kick her door down. Avoid the bedroom while he's awake at all costs". I thought I had gotten better. That he'd bring me safety. I thought HE had gotten better. But I plan my exits in every home we move into, I try not to let him in-between the door and I, So I can run when he decides he's angry. I didn't do anything to deserve this sh*t. I am kind. I know I am. I always try to be, at least. But he tries to hurt me. And I try to make peace. I get it now. Things aren't better. And it wasn't because of me.