There is nothing more painful than that which strikes one emotionally.
When one is hurt--punched, shoved, or struck--it is pride, faith, and the heart that still bleeds years after.
To hold back tears is to bite at one's own flesh, and to twist and dig into the skin; it is to fight the hot torrent that pushes through both eyes. They invade the skin, a cruel show of what is whirling inside because of the harsh blow just a second before.
Then you want to tell me what has become apparent at least almost ten years ago: that I may be expressive once you are listening. I shouldn’t speak when you are “reacting.” You acknowledge that maybe your reaction is too much, that it should have been less. Oh, but understand that I can always “say what you feel as long as it makes sense to me.” Are you sure that I haven’t been both keenly aware and closed shut by this notion? It has left me paralyzed since the days of my childhood, that very truth that strangles and chokes me, that which was burned into my essence as rule.
I thank my faith for the life that persists today. Because I’m really not that strong; I am desperate and down. I need a voice and a home; I cannot stand it when my throat swells shut and the contempt in the house. I would rather you fulfill every threat to throw me through a window, to punch me, to kill me, for I would not feel its effects soon after--if only you would commit. So please, “murrrr…—strangle” me so I may not hear another word of it again.