I'm afraid if I look at it I'll be consumed; the beautiful parts of Samantha will become bruised and broken, and finally evaporate. I'm afraid the bitterness is the largest part of who I really am, always there regardless of how I ignore it.
This acrimony colors my sense of humor, grants me self-disparagement, and currently binds my tongue. I know what I want. I want to rage and scream--but not just that--I want someone to hear my ranting; I want to direct most of it at whomever listens. I want to kick and cry and beat someone's chest with my fists. And when I am finished I want that same person to hold me, forgive me, tell me everything will be all right. And the irony is, I am no respecter of persons. I simply want someone human to see the monster devouring me, allow me to express, and stay.
All my life I have refused to allow myself to admit I felt this. I thought, in time, the resentment would dissipate and eventually disappear. It didn't.
I told a young friend last week that a physician cannot care for a wound at which he or she is afraid to look. I challenged him to look--not to qualify in any way--simply to look at the things he has been avoiding. And I, in my hypocrisy, cannot seem to take my own challenge. As I try to look, my nights are consumed with terrible memories and dreams. I cannot sleep. My days pause for a flashback from which I spend hours recovering. My subconscious punishes me as I allow myself to feel the rancor I can no longer ignore.
...'Tis the season to be jolly...God help me...