Shadows of the Mind

The Calm That Hides the Fire

The Calm That Hides the Fire

I have always been afraid of my anger.

It is like storm brewing quietly in the distance and dark clouds swirling above it, a warning of what is to come. But I have learned well how to hide it, push it down until it is just a quiet whisper inside my chest. I smile. I nod. I swallow words that burn my throat like fire, hoping that no one sees war raging behind my eyes.

People tell me that I'm the calm one, do not get frustrated; that nothing actually gets to me. They see the restraint I've learned for myself, how I keep myself in check when things don't go my way. "You're so laid back," they say. "You never get rattled." If only they could hear my thoughts, feel what it's like when the weight of everything presses on me; they would know it's not calm. It's fear.

And I fear that if I let it out, if I let the anger overflow, I won't be able to contain it. It is there, sometimes curled inside of me, and I can feel the heat rising up from the pit of my stomach, surging through my chest until it is all I can see, all I can feel. And sometimes it just makes me sick—the way it makes me so, the wait for that crack, that fissure in my armor—through which it can again break free.

The last thing I remember of letting my guard drop was just a little bit—just that last thing. My voice had grown louder, sharper than I ever meant it to be. The look on their faces—the shock, the fear—it's burned into my memory. They weren't afraid of what I said. They were afraid of me. That was when I knew I couldn't let that happen again. For them, I buried it deep.

But the more I suppress it, the more it festers. Every slight little injustice, every unfair word uttered against me, every time someone takes advantage of my silence—it builds. I tell myself it's better this way. Better to hold it in, rather than hurt the people I love. Better to swallow my own pain than let it spill over into theirs. But I'm starting to wonder, how much more can I hold?

Nights are when the weight of it all becomes too much to bear, alone in one's room staring at the ceiling for what seems like an eternity, where thoughts come to mind of all things left unspoken and injustices unspoken for. Heart beats too fast, breath comes up too short, and I wonder—what if I let it out? What if, just once, I didn't care about the consequence? But I know better. But I do know the dam breaks once, and you can't put it back.

Sometimes, I think, wish that someone noticed. That someone saw through this mask to ask if you are okay, but they don't. Why would they? I have been training them with the notion that I'm alright, fine. Fine is when all hell breaks loose. And maybe that's why you are steady, reliable, and the one who does not break.

I think of all the anger I keep inside myself and wonder whom I'm keeping this anger for: them or for me? Perhaps it's what I'm afraid to really see if I stop pretending. Maybe it's the fact that the anger is all that seems to be left to me, and if I ever let it out, then I'll lose who I am in it.

It's a strange loneliness of feeling that you're the one who built those walls around yourself. I convinced myself that it was better to live with this burden in silence—not so sure now.

There's a sort of ache inside me, deeper than anger. There's the yearning for someone who will see me, not the me that's been applied for public consumption, but the actual me—who is afraid, who is hurt, and doesn't know how much more they'll be able to pretend.

But they won't. And so, I'll hide it in, pretend to smile through the ache, dig a grave for the storm inside. For I am too afraid of what I might unleash if I let it show. Afraid of what I will become.

Perhaps by the time it's too late, they will finally understand. Or maybe they'll look back and realize the cracks in my facade and the tiny indicators that I was falling. But by that time, that will be too late for me to ever experience them. Too lost in the rage I always had within that I was far too afraid to let go.

I will be a memory of a person who was always rather too silent, too kind, and a little too excellent in hiding the fire that burned inside.

—Lady_Perrila