I am so rarely angry now. I can't really remember the last time I felt pure rage. Maybe irritation or frustration, but not anger. Not for a while. But then a couple of days ago he asked me what I thought was underneath my anxiety. What was it that lurked behind it making me so afraid. And I told him it probably came down to school. Obvious I know, but true nonetheless. I told him about not really understanding why I was being moved to a new town hundreds of miles from MY school, MY family, MY village. I told him that standing outside the concrete building when I was six was my first memory of that now-familiar punch of fear in the stomach. I told him about wanting to vomit and all the crying. I told him it never really got better, never really went away through all those years. And suddenly I felt so angry. So irrationally, powerfully angry. I could have smashed something, smashed up the whole room. Because that's how I felt then, fifteen/sixteen year old me was always pissed off. Angry, furious, wondering how much I woud have to act out, how much weight I would have to lose and how furious I would have to become for someone just to ak me what was wrong. For someone just to acknowledge that something was wrong and that I needed help. But they never did.
Talking about it opened something up, I think. A little chick opened. A realisation that it might be okay to say that it was a trauma of a sort. That the circumstances might be enough to explain it all, the anxiety, the panic, the depression, the anger beneath it all. That there doesn't have to be something wrong with me, something missing in my brain, something lost or extra, to rationalise my feelings. Maybe its just that when I was six, I didn't know what was going on and no-one ever asked me what was wrong.
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