Anger is a quiet thing in me, thought that wasn’t always the case; it used to come so naturally. I was the mountain that had blown it’s top, treacherous and spewing-white hot frustration. Anymore, I feel it come over me, I feel it constrict within my chest, I feel it hinder my ability to think clearly and speak kindly.
I’m not a fighter, I’ve never been good with confrontation, but my tolerance for such things only seems to have lessened over the last few years. I feel that I ought to want a physical or verbal outlet for all of the upset in my chest, but I can’t bring myself to get that worked up. Instead, I shut down.
I hate the moments I find myself in this place. I don’t want to risk saying things I can’t take back. I need to know that I won’t hurt anyone so I close myself off, usually requiring little more than time to think and the opportunity to sleep soundly to be, once again, patched up and back to being me.
Thankfully, my required work is done for the night. All that remains is optional, so when I finally decide to give up on the remaining hours of today, I’m comforted by the fact that I’m that much closer to feeling like myself again.
Tomorrow is another day.