you couldn’t categorize it, when you were younger. you didn’t get hit, after all. just ate the words that spilled over the floor until it made you sick. your teachers all said your writing was “particularly dark” but nothing concerning. you carefully clipped admissions of grief into jokes about how houses feel like splinters. you would walk around with your jaw clenched. what is it you ached for? your home was “safe enough”, wasn’t it? yelling never killed a person. you’d tell other people my parents are just strict. you’d hear over and over again what they sacrificed for you, make it worth it.
when you loved someone, how were you supposed to know any different? your friends and partners like your parents; twisting your words so you seem “too sensitive”. it is bad to have opinions, to want things. you give in because you don’t want the argument. you hear someone call your mental health “delicate.” you cry but there’s not really anything to cry about, isn’t that the heart of it. people tell you that there is much worse going on in the world, get over it. so what that you are alone and he never picks up the phone, that he’s flaky, that he only shows up when he wants something. so what that she keeps you awake threatening to hurt herself; your mother used to say you hurt me when you act like this. there is nothing beautiful here, but what do you have to complain about? there is no red flag. just an empty valley, and dirt, and your heart like a canon in your chest.
many years later, in adulthood, after therapy, you find yourself crying over a broken plate. you find yourself having a panic attack because you’re running fifteen minutes late. you find yourself confused when television shows have tender moments between parents and the kids that they raise - are they supposed to love each other? was it always supposed to be this way?
