the shape of bitterness

I will never forget that night.

Some people have imaginary friends.
I have bitterness.
I do not remember a time before this old wound.
Others are brought up on the milk of their mother.
Me?
I am brought up on the dark ugly blood that is bitterness and loneliness.
The shape of self-hatred is more familiar to me than my own mother’s heart.

That night, I talk around the shape of bitterness.
I did not think of naming it.
When you live with something for this long,
you forget it is there.

But you sensed it.
You asked me, “Are you bitter?”
Hearing it from you
touched a nerve.
An explosion of that familiar fury-grief gripped me.
I could not quite control my voice.
“Of course, I am,” I laugh flatly, loudly. “But what is the point?”
Maybe only I could hear how my voice shook,
how tears threatened the iron grip I was keeping on myself.
I was grateful we had reached the cubicles –
you wanted to ask more –
and I pointed at the cubicles and said, “And now I am going to bathe.”
Flippant. Keep it flippant, or the old fury will explode.
And we cannot have that.

I wept in the shower.
Ah, how familiar I am with this.
I did it every day for a year.
Break down in the shower where no one can see you,
and emerge strong, dependable, confident.
It is even the same old voice scolding me:
you need to stop crying when you turn off the knob,
you need to look normal,
presentable. 

Well,
it hurt,
that old familiar pain
of folding my anguish into smaller and smaller folds
and putting it away,
but I emerged tearless,
the way I always do.

I waited for you.
Prayed you would not pick up the conversation thread.

Too much.
It is all too much.
My iron self-control had been worn to nothing
after a month of fear and grief.
The pain in my heart and mind were so much,
I could feel the tears pressing
in the back of my throat
against the backs of my eyes
even after I had swallowed them all in the shower.

And I hated that.
If I am to be worn down to nothing,
if I am to be broken down into nothing,
if I am to be lowest of the low,
at least let me have my pride.
Let me remain clear-eyed.

We walked back in the dark.
And
you
apologized
to
me.

Everything
in
me
stilled.

It was so much.
Hot tears welled up and fell like pain,
only this time
it felt less like heartbreak
and more like healing.
It hurt.
It hurts like the pain of lancing a pus-filled wound.
I am heartbroken all over again
and my heart is laid raw all over again
and I weep for everything I was forced through all over again,
but this time,
I cried with relief.

My voice emerged,
quiet and defenceless,
thank you.
thank you.

You let me talk throughout the night,
the old wound exposed,
I cough and cough and cough,
and so many black deaths come pouring out,
the same old fury and shame and bitterness.

My voice shook at the edges
from the fury-grief I was feeling.
It shook and shook and shook
and I kept pausing to grip it tighter,
praying it came out even.
I will be damned if I sound as ground down as I feel.

Tears burned again and again
as I remember your apology
and marvel at it all over again.
Relief. This feeling like heartbreak is relief and peace.
But I swallowed every tear back.
I was sick of crying.
I have cried enough this month to last me a year.

My voice shook again
as I said
I helped a friend unconditionally,
because
I (pause)
did not want (pause)
her (pause)
to feel alone (pause),
the way I do.
Trail off quietly
so no one can hear
the tremor and grief.

Sometimes,
I think
the loneliness
from my most vulnerable moments,
is tattooed onto my skin,
ground into my flesh,
tear-soaked into my cheeks,
and indelible on my bones.

Over dinner,
you showed me how my pain
was the site of my greatest strength against strife.
I –
here I go again –
I teared up.
I stared at my soup
through a blur.
At least my voice was controlled,
as I said,
thank you.

I am sick of the terms,
“being vulnerable”,
“opening up”,
“being closed off”.
Should,
should,
and should not.
This is how it always sounds to me.
I should be more vulnerable,
I should open up,
I should stop being closed off.

What does it even mean?
Am I even capable of this?
Do I even want to be?

I hate it
but I keep trying.
I do not want to disappoint
when I am already so disappointing.

I always thought:
I have not opened up enough with that one friend,
have not let her see enough of me,
have not let her in enough.
Enough, enough, enough. 
Always the litany in my head.

I showed you a message I wrote to this friend
about the shape of my bitterness.
And
how strange
that I never even thought
the message itself
was an act of honesty
and courage
and “opening up”
until you pointed it out.

I would never have done this before everything.

How strange
that I never realized
I was already trying.

You returned to me
myself
and
my power.

Nothing I did was ever enough for me,
as though I was looking at a fun house mirror.
But you showed me another mirror
and the “I” that I see
looks
so
courageous.

How blessed I am
that you love me so much
and you believe in fairness enough
to apologize to me
though it is no fault of yours.
I cannot say it enough:
thank you. 
You have given me the gift of peace.

How blessed I am
that you love me so much
to patiently listen to this outpouring of black deaths and smoke and bile,
to show me another reflection of myself
shaped by love
again and again
and I see how
human
I am.

Maybe I will never forget the shape of bitterness
but maybe I can learn the shape of love.