The cracks in the dam
I’m usually very good at burying my angst, at keeping it deeply hidden within the depths of my daily life, so it doesn’t rear its ugly head into my life unless I allow it to. I’ve been keeping it safely under control for 50+ years, so I’ve become very adept at it. But, lately, I’ve been having a helluva time keeping it under wraps. It seems to have attained a type of independence from my choice, a form of sentience that I can’t quite define or control, which has lead to random moments of emotional venting that I’m not quite sure what the fuck to do with.
I’m not sure if it’s like a bottle of volitility contained too long that’s creating this overwhelming need to spew my anger at the world, or if age has simply taught me that bottling my anger serves no purpose. Either way, I grow very tired of keeping my tongue, afraid of offending those close to me by being open about my issues. The last of the active players in the ugly tableau of my childhood has passed recently, so who the hell is left to offend? My siblings? Who all vacilate between denial of anything outside the norm, or trying 1-up each other in some undocumented contest of victimhood? The concern for their feelings that once held me back no longer holds the sway of once did, so even that restraint no longer seems to restrict me as it once did.
So here I sit, with a lifetime of bullshit, bottled like compressed air, waiting for an appropriate moment to finally speak my mind, but shaking in my boots, unsure where to begin.
Sigh. I’ll work up the nerve to begin eventually. Just hang in there.