I rinse my hands. Cold water washes away dust and fills the cracks in my dry palms. If I could lie in that pool of water that I hold, I would never leave.

“Every day for a year I’ve been doing this,” I say to myself in the mirror, “and every day for the next year you will continue.” What have I been doing? I have been surviving.

I had to draw a line. I am not a piece of clay that can be manhandled and mistreated. I am a lump of gold that can be moulded and refined. I stitched up my wounds. I let the water run down my face. With clean eyes I saw the world for the first time.

I will not be a host any longer. No more leaches and parasites will suck out my kindness and turn their backs to me. It is my world, and I come first. When I wake in the morning it is not with a sense of burden, but with a sense of determination.

The cool tiles of the bathroom are a reminder of an icy past. Can you help me thaw out? With your temper and your rage that you burned me with? I do not need you now. I never needed you.

So I must say good bye. Turn over a new leaf. Farewell, you. You have left me happy, no matter what you wanted the outcome to be. I have been renewed. I have a new ritual. I can do anything.