My mother might be surprised to know that I was an angry child. She might be surprised because while I was a bit hard to handle I was still respectful (most of the time) and nice to others (a fair bit of the time).
Besides, I was mostly quiet around others so it was probably easy to see me as a well-adjusted child. I wasn’t. And it had nothing to do with my mother. It was all about me and the world I had created for myself in my brain. In that world I was a slug, a tiny, insignificant, disgusting slug who was unworthy of everything.
Sure, I could dress up nicely, smile for the cameras, and even say the right things. But that is precisely why someone should have realized my anger, if they were paying attention to me, that is. Saying and doing all the right things at all the right times just doesn’t jive with anyone, not a living, breathing human being anyway .
Everyone has moments, and everyone explodes sometimes. I did too. I just kept that private as well. I would scream into my pillow. I would slam my hand over my mouth and muffle my epithets that way as well. Sometimes I would even hit something that couldn’t hit back. All in the privacy of my bedroom, or when no one else was around.
Even then I cared about appearances, what people felt about me, above all. It didn’t matter how angry I was, I would never let them see me mad. Of course I know now how detrimental that was, and after a lot of therapy and some intense soul searching I realize that being mad is not the end of the world.
If someone is going to judge me for having feelings so be it, but bottling them up helps absolutely no one. It definitely doesn’t help me. I think back to all those times I punched my pillow, to all the times I screamed silently into the dark. I think back and I shake my head, but if I hadn’t gone through all of that I would never be here now.
And I bet on reflection that my mother won’t at all be surprised by this admission. I’ve never been as good at hiding my emotions as I think I am.