Last week, my mom turned to me, said something my heart heard, and dropped a beat.
I’m cuddled under my blanket, waiting for dawn to turn, but sleep won’t come easily. The stairs creek against my wall and I know she’s coming. My heart races, her foot pounds, it’s consistent, and I’m anxious. I turn my back to the door, taking as much time as I can. She steps into my room, places a hand on my calf and sits on the edge of my bed, not getting too close.
“Honey?” She whispers quietly, unlike her. I mumble something in response and roll over to look her in the eye; it’s defiant, something I don’t do, but I need to be defined.
“That note was very sweet.” She’s starting with the good; a stranger looking me in the eye. I don’t respond, she will get to the point eventually, I hope. The guilt is too heavy to bear, and she can see me cracking beneath the weight.
“I guess this is a milestone in our relationship.” She states, boldly.
“You’ve never hurt me before, never scorned the tips of my hair and scratched at my surface, you hurt me, you’ve never done that before.”
I can’t breathe; it’s that simple.
The next morning we’re fine, but I’m hesitant. I know that something is different, I know that my mother doesn’t know me, at least not my anger, but I think she has seen my rage, briefly, and I think it scares her. It scares me too. But I’m angry because I lock up the truth, I soak up what others dish out and stay quiet, I inhale their anger, and bolt mine. I’m on overload, and I’m seething.
There’s this pit, this black hole, in my stomach that can jump through my throat at anytime, any moment that just slightly turns me discolored, and lately, that’s been often. It doesn’t have self-control, but I do, just enough to silence that pit, to paint a smile over the anger that has built a home between my ribcage.
This pit can be filled to the maximum, I haven’t reached it yet, and I don’t want to, who I am right now, with this anger, is scary enough, I don’t want to know what I can be, I don’t think I could be the same.
I’m angry, and it’s all my fault, because I can’t bring up the courage to speak my mind, and tell you right now what I’m thinking. So, I’m going to tell you something that I’ve never said before, I’m angry and I believe that this anger is changing me; I can’t remember who I am beneath this rage, and my pit can not be erased, I guess I’m stuck. I guess I’m scared, I guess I don’t know the real meaning of truth, but I do know trust, and I can say, that I trust myself enough to dodge the truth. But don’t worry, the truth, it’s all kept in this black hole that I fall into and can’t seem to creep out of; and that, I believe.
Ghandi once said “The best answer to anger is silence.” But did he ever wonder, what happens to that anger as it sits in silence? I have, and I know the answer; it waits to erupt.
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