There have been things over the past few days that I’ve wanted to write about, but I’m afraid to put the words into print. They’re things I can’t share. They’d be kept safely within the pages of my journal – the way it used to be years ago. And still, I can’t bring myself to write the words.
The printed word has always made things more tangible – which can be painful, but also therapeutic. Sometimes I’m just not ready to deal with the things that need to be dealt with.
I’m angry. Thoughts seep in and out of my head and that pit in my stomach grows heavy. I feel sick. I feel violent. But I push it all down as deep as it will go because I’m not yet ready to release it.
Sometimes I don’t want to be the bigger person. Sometimes I wish I could say all of those words that dance on the tip of my tongue. I wish I could tell certain people exactly what I’m thinking and not worry about the consequences.
But I do worry about the consequences and my desires – even those that are justified – must take a backseat to what is best for others.
Vengeful thoughts make it difficult to fall asleep. It’s in the midst of that insomnia when my mind goes to the darkest of places.
I long for a day when this is all behind me and yet I try not to wish away the years.
There is hatred inside of me and not for the reasons one might expect. Still, I hate that I hate. It’s not who I am. It’s not who I want to be. But I can’t let it go – I’m not ready to let it go.
One day, I’ll fill those pages with those tangible words that no one else will ever read. I’ll spill my soul onto paper. I’ll cry. Then I’ll take a shower and get into my cozy pajamas and sleep from the exhaustion of the catharsis. And I’ll wake feeling lighter and more at peace.
But not yet. For now, I still cling to my anger and hatred. I’m not yet ready to let them go.