Dying Inside …
Hurts and disappointments impact me immediately — but not always. There are those moments where I burst into tears, which only angers me for doing so, bringing on another flood of tears. At certain times, these tears would be followed by a volley of of angry, defensive words. At other times, silence. The worse part? Later, when I would be off to myself, brooding, tumultous thoughts running through my head those half a million things that I should have said. I have known the angst of battling disputes in my head, or the devising of plans, all with different outcomes. Though I have trouble speaking the words, I know exactly how I feel and the reason why I felt as I do, if my thoughts were selfish, and if I overreacted to something.
I let my emotions come honestly so many years ago, when I was but a child, when I did not have responsibilities and concerns, when I did not know much about living and a lot less about dying. As I grew older, I found so much heaviness upon my shoulders, that I could not express myself openly; I was embaressed to do so. Or perhaps, it was not that I did not feel, but that I didn't know how to express it. Despite this, I experienced these emotions, yet knew not how to let them healthily be expelled.
When I grew older still, gained responsibilities as I did, I let loose those emotions, in their rawest form, and it was because of this that I was taken down the road to near madness. This road encompasses my life with my ex-husband, the years of abuse living under his thumb — and control, which, over time, grew to sinister proportions. His own mental illness that I later discovered, his time spent in the sanitarium before I knew him, had I known before, I might have escaped far sooner. He used to enjoy the tears, the obvious pain I was in emotionally, physically, and once he grew more lethal in his threats, I grew to not let those show. Though I hurt, I would not cry, yet I would burst out into tears at the strangest of times later. I saw it then as growing stronger. I see it now as simply changing; not maturity, but rather stoicism.
Back in those times of my marriage, those tears were "arranged" to be brought forth immediately. They were not tears of my own personal angst, but instigated angst. As I moved on, anger — a deep-seated anger — became that single emotion that I allowed myself to experience right away. This of course led to foul moods and bitter, sometimes harsh, words, as well as having a pessimistic outlook on life. Often times I'd try to mask the anger with dark humor. Whether I did this to make my own self believe the anger wasn't there, or whether I did this to make others believe the anger wasn't there, depended upon the situation. It's no wonder that a television show, Dead Like Me became something I could identify with.
It seems, however, that the anger never seems to leave me. I think because of this (albeit) dark humor façade I have built), others may see me as a strong person; a cool demeanor equalling stoicness. Perhaps conveying my feelings this way is a strength, but to me, it is my only form of survival.
What is not seen, those moments when I cannot sleep and the tears come, remembrances of things done or said, it feels like I am dying — at least the inner part of me is dying. Or perhaps it's more like never being born.
