My father had an undirected temper tantrum this morning because he felt sick, was late for a meeting and couldn't find his wallet. He kept imploring me to give it to him like I had tucked it away somewhere. He threw things around the house, loudly tumbled up and down the stairs, moaning and wailing over some mysterious pains he had. It made me feel tight in my throat and I hid in my room like I did when I was small and he was like this. Eventually he left and the house let out a collective gasp for breath. The cats and I came out of our hiding places and walked around timidly.
I was an angry teenager, but my rage was expressed through my silence. I told my parents nothing about my life and eventually they stopped asking. We're still just catching up on the details. In highschool and college I took every opportunity to write short stories or poems about unhappy adults, which my teachers must have thought cliche and curious. I can't help thinking that that same impulse is what is also driving this blog posting, a small piece of writing that has undergone a terrible amount of revision because I know my mother will read it. I'm torn over what is the best expression of rage-- volume or silence? Which is a better tool to make changes? I forgive my father... almost. Mostly I'm angry that he's still the same way, and that I'm still the same way around him. I still don't let him hug me. This picture is of a Beowulf model, something I made for school in tenth grade.