“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Nothing.”
“I’m fine.”
He knows I’m full of shit, so he presses the issue. He doesn’t need a long-winded explanation, just a few words to point him in the right direction. A small glimpse at the ragged forest I’m lost in. A snap shot of the mossy rocks I’m scrambling over, trying desperately to gain some traction, and emerge safely out the other side. No, he doesn’t expect me to spend the next hour telling him all about landscape of the world in crisis I’ve created in my head while he was at work, he just wants to know what universe it’s located in.
The hardest part about explaining what is bothering me isn’t the opening. It’s not the fear of ridicule or invalidation. I know I’m in a safe place here and—on the days that I feel I’m worthy of accepting care—the hard part isn’t finding the right words, but the admission. I’m not afraid that I won’t be able to explain why I’m angry anymore, I’m afraid that I have no right to be angry. As if anger is something that must be earned, fought hard for, killed and died for. I have a constant running list of the things in my life that I have no right to be angry about. The things that aren’t related directly enough to me. Everything must have an argument and a rationalization.
But I tell him anyway. Despite the fact that I’m sure I sound ridiculous. I throw him a few lines, a general synopsis, an outline. Hoping it’s enough for him to stroke my hair and tell me he hopes I feel better. Even though I’m positive he will want to say that I’m getting worked up about something that has nothing to do with me. That I have no control over it and should just let go. Instead he says, “That makes sense. I can see how you would feel that way.” He never mentions anything about my rights to be upset.
I feel better. We move on. But the world is still there, collapsing and expanding, ever-evolving and demanding. He goes into the other room and I try to imagine all things he really wanted to say, but realize he said them. It’s not a lack of honesty that kept him from questioning my reasons because anger is not something you earn, it’s a feeling. Your guts, your heart, they do not decide the things that are rational and earned. Like you don’t choose who you love or the colors you prefer. Like you don’t make conscious decisions and weigh the pros and cons of taking chocolate over vanilla. Anger is primal. It’s what you do with it that is your choice.
There’s another choice there, too. The choice between focusing on figuring out why we feel what we’re feeling and deciding what to do.
