You know you're fucked when in ten years you can see him knocking on your door and you let him in.

You let him in your hypothetical house you've finally found shelter and safety in;
You let him in your healed home of a body and brain.

You tell him to take his shoes off at the door, as if this will prevent the trail of dirt collecting on your hardwood floor. As if the prevention of mud will stop you from remembering when he buried you six feet under and turned your skin into fertilizer for his graveyard.

You let him in and give him the possibility to wreck havoc and reduce you to rubble all over again.