Last night I wept for my family, divided and separated as we are, broken and dysfunctional.
I cried for my lost childhood, spoiled by chaos and violence, fear, guilt, and shame.
My body wracked and shook, folded in upon itself. I wailed mournfully like a dying creature, and I knew what sadness and grief felt like. It was a feeling I did my best to avoid. It wasn’t the first time, but I wanted it to be the last.
The alternative — anger and rage — hasn’t worked. I doggedly pursue anger, but sadness, I don’t know what to do with that except surrender.
There was no controlling the pain, no pretensions as tears, snot, and spit flowed.
Afterwards, I felt lighter.
There was still anger, but the anger was like the last bit of flame used to zone off the “No Trespassing” part of me.