Writing my heart out, like the strings on a violin. Things I would never say, are now being said. The year of pain, the year of faking it and no one knew half of what I went through. The metaphor of the type writer is anger, the pain and how everything I hid so well, was starting to show. Situations I didn’t start, but were set up to show individuals true intentions still burned in the end. You wonder who was going to screw up next. Being blamed for things that you didn’t screw up, the one everyone used as a blaming mat. I have so many targets, just because I did everything on my own and I minded my own business. I wasn’t in anyones business, still had targets on her back. The quiet one will always worked hard. The jealousy was clear as day. The drama, talking behind peoples backs only made the individuals more exposed to their punishment. A organization that fell apart after I left. It goes to show who was the asset of the company and held everything together like glue. The good ones will always leave, to find somewhere else where they are treated with respect and their confidential information gets taken seriously. So many HIPPA laws were violated, while the individual involved was humiliated. Nothing can replace the mess that was created, the only thing is the story that was written in the background, getting ready to share to the world.