December 12, 2007
While I may not be comfortable with the concept of when to get angry, I am more than capable of it. There’s been a little of it here, but the things that I don’t say are often far worse than the things I do – which, I think, is to my credit.
Moby: Fuckin’ whore.
Slams door as he leaves for the last time.
Me: Take care.
Thinks, “Not that you’d know since you couldn’t lock it up for the last half of our relationship.”
I didn’t say it out loud. Which is an improvement from my relationship with the ex-fiancé, wherein he and I spent more time honing our expressions of fury than being in the relationship. The things that I think of saying, sometimes, scare me.
I don’t, which is good. But what kind of person automatically thinks of the most vicious & cruel retort possible? What kind of person subconciously sifts through everything she knows about a person until the sentences formed in her mind are perfectly designed and aimed to do the most amount of damage in the fewest syllables?
This is one of the reasons why, when I do get mad, I get very quiet. I may even seem stupid, unable to hold my own in the ongoing debate/discussion. It’s because I’m afraid that, if I open my mouth, the worst will come out.
I’ve come close, here. And some of those things, I’ve re-saved as drafts. Because I was angry, and rightly so, and I don’t necessarily regret expressing that anger. But to let it sit there as a reminder, every day… that seemed like the cruelest sin of all.
And I know, better than a lot of people, just how damaging and hurtful and lasting those kinds of words can be. I don’t ever want my voice to be the one rattling around someone’s brain, to be the one heard with startling clarity over and over every time a painful memory resurfaces. That’s not the legacy I want to leave, deadly sin or no.