The morning quiet, shattered by the gurgle of the tea kettle. My time. The boiling water matches the emotions inside me. At first, the bubbles slowly form on the sides, the water calm, the surface appears still. Electricity keeps the kettle on to make the water change its temperature. I watch the water like it represents my life. How can something still become furious? Pressure and time. That’s the thing. Somehow it became the norm to appear composed and silent. Don’t draw attention. Don’t express my feelings. Just keep it inside. I chose to do it this way. Be the kettle. Be quiet! I chose a vassal designed to force heat up, pretty convenient metaphor.
So, each day, the battle begins anew. First, forcing open the eyes to face the morning light or lack thereof. A glance to the sleeping wife and dog in bed. Focusing out of the dream world, shattering the images which lose meaning as soon as I am aware. Perhaps in that state, the rage churns out pictures and scenarios to expel its power? Years of keeping the emotions inside, expressing only when the body could no longer hold them in, allowed me to survive my broken relationship with my father, first marriage, a stroke, brain surgery, Jaz’s cancer, and far too many deaths to name. Learned behavior from my mother who always appeared calm and solid yet still also warm. That’s my goal, too but one that I am not sure I manage as well.
My silence borders on aloofness or perhaps even indifference. Expressing vulnerability on paper and just a few people a recipe of feeling lost and alone most of the days, creating voiceless gaps for those near me but cant seem to reach me. I hear them, but feel powerless to respond, say what I am really feeling, immediately regretting my new norm. I watch as my niece is not allowed to just cry but to express what is coming up for her. TO use her words rather than shed tears, and envy boils up me as I wish I learned that behavior early on. Why don’t I have the words for what is inside me or maybe its just that I have too many? Too many things left unsaid to spare others my self-pitying thoughts. Always sacrificing my feelings in order to save others theirs, when the reality is some of my relationships could have used the honestly much earlier in time.
Always noting, recording, taking counts, keeping invisible scores that don’t serve me yet, in the morning quiet, those emotions bubble up along with the kettle. The contemplative moments are what I live for. The silence so my insides can scream inside my head, never allowed to come out. An act of self-protection turned me voiceless to bouncing emotions, imprisoning my face into impassivity. Trapped on the outside, hurting others with my inability to share, I still don’t quite know where this need to keep quiet came from. A form of protection that doesn’t serve me now in intimate relationships especially my marriage. Knowledge is not my savior. Breaking the bonds of silence is the real work, yet I refuse to do it.
Over the years, I have found release valves, but they all happen to be male. And there it is: the lasting impact of Papa from childhood. Forgiven but not forgotten. To keep myself safe from the discomfort of his alcoholism, I put a distance between my heart and voice. The ugly truth is that even when relationships are repaired, their negative impact lasts for far longer. It was easier when I could just blame him for my shit, but now what I learnt about anger and sadness does not assist me in other relationships. It handicaps them, makes them far more difficult than they need to be because of my refusal to break the glass of distance.
This is what frustrates me most. Blaming Papa for my actions does no good, but they worked for a while. They kept me safe when I was a boy, and even a young man, but now as a husband and a new father, these tools get to be discarded because they have become obstacles, a detriment to my closest relationships. It is only when I am alone but surrounded by my thoughts that it hits me the wrong paths of my life. Going over conversations where I fail to really say what I feel, instead, getting lost in defenses or over explanation of the facts when the problem is something else entirely. And so that same quiet which allowed me to let it out alone now teaches me to share, to use words to build a bond.
What no one ever tells you that even when you know the issue or the problem and perhaps even the solution, it doesn’t mean that you will get on that path. It’s like seeing the exit sign on the freeway and passing it right by because you are distracted or in dream mode, or looking at the phone, doing something else entirely when you should be looking to get off.
A simple solution becomes difficult due to my habit. The quiet. The fucking silence until the blow up. That’s the pattern as if those are the only switches to my tongue, on or off when they should be continually running to ensure the steam never builds up, the kettle doesn’t gurgle over and damage the relationships I am trying so hard to cement, build or maintain.
And so, I watch the kettle, helpless but wanting to be different. Perhaps one day, there will be time to take out the stuff inside before it explodes out. I will take the exit. I will not be quiet. Till then, I face this quiet alone.