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You look at me as though I'm supposed to say something to that, as though I'm supposed to phrase a response.  But there's nothing I can say.  You stand there, and you look at me, and it's as though in your vision, I am supposed to wither away and become feeble and weak.  But I'm too proud for that.  I'm not about to let you have your way.

I want to scream at you.  I want to say all of the awful words that I have been hiding inside myself, shielding from you.  All of those words that came in fleeting moments late at night, when I was alone, and you didn't comfort me, I want to throw in your face.  I want to see you wither away and become feeble and weak.  I want to hurt you.

Like you hurt me.

But I'm too proud for that.  I'm too selfish to let you see me lose control, to lose control at all over you.  I'm thoroughly too arrogant and irritating, and absolutely full of loathing to respond in any way to your provocations.  You want me to throw myself down and cry and beg for forgiveness.  And I won't give you the satisfaction of seeing me do that.

So I stand there.  In silence.  Glaring at you.  I probably look hurt, like I want to apologize but don't have the words or fear it wouldn't be enough.  I promise, if I had an apology I felt I owed you, you would have heard it long ago.  I'm waiting for you to figure out what to do when I don't conform to your predictions, your expectations, when I don't fall into the standard response of that psychoanalysis that you claim to have performed.

Because the premise of your words to me, is in that I will react, and feel bad, and ask for something.  But you misjudged me.  I'm not that sort of person.  Maybe I was once, but I'm not anymore.  So I'm not going to drown in guilt or grovel before you.  I'm going to let you make the biggest mistake of your life by expecting an apology from me when really, you owe me one.

Silence.

This is my reply.  This is my confrontation.  But this is definitely your loss.