It’s so hard to be sweet, to be quiet, to be vulnerable and demur. So much of me wants to fight; I don’t want to stay ‘stand up’ because I am not abused, generally unheard, I really do not go without (unless you consider the days I am on my ‘diet’ and I do not have ice cream) to be honest even as I type this I wonder who I am so mad at, why do I have and have always felt this storm inside me.
This feeling has lessened as of late, there are more important things to worry about but there have been moments where I do, I feel like screaming! I will admit, even as the youngest of three, I was raised mostly as an only child though and do I dare say, I may be a brat? I loath being discounted, made to feel as though my words and or feelings carry no weight, talked over and disregarded. A friend of Pete’s frequently tells him to stop talking over me, Pete too has the same mentality as I do, if you met his Mother you’d understand. I guess I am kind of a brat.
Since my own Mothers passing I have had grand notions of publishing her writings, her sketches and just the wonderful little creations she jotted down. When I read her writing sometimes I read things like ‘3 kids, 3 kids dammit and still I do it all’, if you knew my Dad you’d understand. The theme of some ring loudly, she wanted more, she was a VERY demur woman, a lady of her generation, very ‘Pleasantville‘ but occasionally she would throw a pot down in the kitchen and yell ‘are you even listening to me!!??’. One weekend I visited, before the weekend where I visited and she passed away, still struggling by the way; she was telling me a story and my Dad interrupted and I just looked at him and said ‘would you let her finish?’. I loved her so dearly, such a voice and spirit. She seemed to be caged by her past abuse, possible dreams she had yet to entertain, passions she had not followed. When she slammed down that pot or pan I truly believe that was her letting it out.
I am more vocally delicately delicate (you like that?) than I used to be. The man of the house isn’t working and I have to set aside what I am sure my Dad drilled into me as a child. I support his dreams, even if it isn’t going to a job he hates for 30 years and even though I think he’d look fantastic in an apron (shirtless of course) he doesn’t love to clean. That being said I do tell him how I feel, not always when I feel it but I take the time, I do not want to let it get to the boiling point, as I have let it before. This poor man rarely sees me vulnerable. I have been taking care of myself, brushing my tears aside and or ‘sucking it up and dealing with shit’ for so long it’s hard to let is all go and cry on his shoulder and tell him I need him.
mentally angry & distraught
I do feel less mad, the storm inside me seems to lessen when I allow myself to be vulnerable, when I speak my mind, as delicately as I can. Perhaps in this time of self isolation I can use this as a time to work on quieting my storm, take more walks, connect by allowing myself to cry about why I don’t like the plants near that painting or why I hate it when he takes the shirts straight out of the freshly washed basket instead of taking fro his drawer, I mean I really could ease up a bit 😉
-B
