It’s happened again. I’ve gone and yanked my soapbox out from it’s safe hiding spot, dusted it off, and climbed on up. I’ve got my megaphone tested and ready, and I’m prepared to shout from the rooftops my message. I take a deep breath, set my shoulders back, lift my head, open my mouth, and the words get caught in my throat. Like a giant ball of anger, confusion, frustration, hurt, and sorrow, they’re stuck there. Mostly because when I get angry, all that comes out is yelling. And if I’ve learned anything in my old plus one years on this rock, it’s been that yelling doesn’t get the message across.
Neither does saying nothing.
And yet, neither does speaking to those who will not listen.
So. I resort to the one place I feel safe enough to pour out my heart. Where I can come and say what I want to say, at great lengths, without interruptions, or eye rolling (that I can see), or blank stares like people don’t know what I’m talking about. I can be brave here, say what has needed to be said for six years or more, talk at the people I need to, and get it all off my chest.
And then I sit down to write, and all I can hear are the voices in my head that tell me that the RIGHT people will not listen. The people I’m angry at don’t know that I’m angry, or they just don’t give a shit. The things I’m angry about will never, ever change. The PEOPLE will never change. It takes everything I have to NOT lash out; here, there, everywhere. Every inch of my soul is fighting my own self.
Maybe I will find the words. Because I am at my breaking point. I’ve had it. Enough is enough. Maybe not today, but soon, I will find the right way to express how I feel. Until then, I will put my soapbox back under my bed with care, my megaphone on my nightstand, kiss my children and husband, and just be me. Because the people in THIS house? Pretty fucking awesome people. Quirks and all.