Thursday, October 28, 2010

resentment as dark as a long night

A noticeable crimson tinged  her cheeks stemming from a wave of heat spilling out of her bones while she stood there listening to the same weary words. Extreme opinionated garbage spewed out in a manner that reeked of disturbing righteousness.  Caught in the time between flashbacks and the same old thing, she nodded politely while her flesh rippled in defence.

She never complained. Nor did she ever dispute the person standing in front of her rambling on in a self absorbed manner..... sermonizing beliefs like they were gospel.  She never stopped the conversation even though this other person's diatribe scratched her sensibilities, plucked her anger, and rubbed against  her values.  "No one really wanted to hear what she had to say," she thought.  "So what's the point of fueling a potential head butting confrontation with someone wearing blinders?"

Instead, she swallowed.  
That was what she was taught to do. 
Chew with your mouth closed and swallow.  
Stuff it down.  
"All of it,"  the voices bellowed inside her head.
Respect others.  
Don't make waves.  
Don't react emotionally. 
Learn to take it. 
Ask questions. 
Keep the conversation going on an even keel.  
No one wants to hear your opinion. 

She kept swallowing, having learned well.  As a peacemaker in a sea of entitled sharks, she learned to keep her feelings in check.  Feelings are bloody.   Sharks love to feast on the blood of emotions.  Whenever she had slipped up during her childhood  by speaking her mind, by spilling some of how she felt, the hungry sharks ripped the flesh from her soul.  The scars, invisible to the human eye were visible if one was paying attention.  Paying attention meant listening for what wasn't being said.  Few bothered.

Over the years when the voices around her rose above the emotional timber treeline she learned quickly  to step into the woods ..... to cover herself with armour.  Unfortunately, the armour was such a heavy burden.  It was getting rusty too.  Holes were beginning to form.  Cracks in the armour began to exhale used up air out allowing the  noisy scratchy emotions to seep through. 

Echos from apparitions.  
Long ago arguments.  
Nasty accusations.  
Emotional manipulation.  
Screeching.  Bleeding.  
Ripped muscles on bones.  
Abandoned kindness.  
Unresolved meaning.  

There was no escaping the hurt as it pounced on the stored feelings.  The bottled up, swallowed up unresolved conflict turned into a resentment as dark as a long night.

Raging fear had accumulated deep in her bruised soul.  It had been stirred as it stewed, moving right into the marrow.  Sinewy sins percolated as she ran the other way......... away from the powerful need to 

But that wasn't allowed she told herself.  That wasn't being good.  It wasn't kind.  Besides, no one really cared about what she thought or how she felt.  Her opinions didn't matter.  She didn't matter. 

Instead............ she poured herself a double scotch, downed it in one gulp.  Then, she poured herself another and another until the resentment resided again. Just like her Mom.  She chose to be numb.


Robert said...

wow dana This would make an awesome improv solo for a theater troupe I can relate to so much of what you wrote The whole notion of stuffing feelings and any kind of outward expression, feeling like it doesnt matter what I think or feel cuz no one really cares anyhow These are things I reflect back upon from childhood but so often they are like weeds, sprouting up no matter how many times I remove them Excellent description my friend of a painful reality we often go through inside our own skin

awareness said...

Thank you Robert! I'm so pleased it worked!!
I am going on a writing retreat this weekend.... the first time EVER. 2 full days of writing workshops and prayer. The past week or so, I have been flooded with little stories, dialogues and vignettes, mostly based on stories and part of my life or the lives of others around me....... and I'm thinking that I would like to write more of these... maybe they are the beginning of a script? Who knows.
I'll keep you posted.
Cheers to you friend.

TheMuddledMarketPlace said...

ohmygoodgrief.............fine writing/ sad writing/writing that pushes us all to investigate how and why.......and when

thanks for posting it

awareness said...

MMP. It does have some bite to it doesn't it? haha! It's genesis came from reading Henri Nouwen's book, Home. It is a workshop book using the Prodigal Son parable and Rembrandt's painting of it as a springboard to allow oneself to look through the eyes of the three men in the story. The level of resentment the son who stayed home and "did the right thing" is what I was trying to capture in this piece AND what happens if you are brought up to believe that it isn't proper or kind to express yourself.... how psychologically ripping that is.

This piece flowed out of me very quickly. I think I'm in a place where I have some distance emotionally to be able to write the sadness without personally falling into it.

I'm pleased it resonates.