It was another emotionally volatile evening again. He had been out drinking, which gave me a few hours of respite from the verbal and psychological onslaughts. On his return, he continued his verbal atirade, determined to wear me down so I would finally crack into psychosis.
I removed myself from the room and went in the kitchen where he followed me, to continue. He took the long chopping knife and held the blade pointing it, against his heart, pleading with me to push it. Begging me to help him end his misery. Telling me how much he hates himself. Saying he needed a soul transplant. Asking me to tell him how much I hate him. Manipulating me to spark his internal rage. Every question was loaded with venom, baiting me to bite the forbidden fruit.
I stayed in therapist mode. It helped to ground me and maintain my self control. I…
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