A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I found the anger once, or rather, 

it found me, when first I crossed the bridge

of that ballad and heard

that you should have known better, 

and in those minutes I blamed you

for everything,

for my anxieties and insecurities,

for my absolute conviction of my own worthlessness,

for my fear of having an opinion,

having needs or desires,

for both the appearance of my body

and the fact that I could not look

at my reflection with anything less

than hatred and disgust,

for fear of truly living, fear of risk,

and yet also fear of dying,

and my inability just to walk away, 

just to bleed until there was no pain left

for this heart to pump.

I blamed you for the deep-seated fear

that there was something irredeemably wrong with me,

that my desires were unnatural,

that I could never exist without shame.

I feared that the darkness within my head

was literally because of you, 

was composed from whatever genetic recipe

caused your darkness

and was therefore inescapable.

I feared its progression,

that I would literally lose my mind. 

I remember still so vividly that dream

of the asylum, your word against mine,

and they believed I was crazy,

and I awoke crying and inconsolable

and so palpably alone. And I knew then, 

and still know now, it was only a dream, 

a trick of the mind, but the images and the emotions

are with me still. The same pain and anger

from that bridge, and for weeks I drove

with only one song on repeat, volume up,

windows down in the car with no air conditioning,

screaming at you alongside her, that now I cried

in the middle of the night

for the same damn thing.

And then: new fear and the guilt.

Was the dream a warning that you knew?

That you saw a change in me, a distance,

a rage. And would it feed your own anger,

an anger of which even my anger was scared. 

Or worse - was I indeed the pedestal 

on which you were precariously balanced,

and what would happen if we toppled?

Would I be responsible as you shattered

into a million little pieces that no kintsugi

could repair? I gaslit myself,

before I even knew what that meant.  

I was just being dramatic, it was all in my head,

and it wasn’t so bad, and I was being ungrateful

and uncaring, so quick! Bury this

with all the other shame

in an unmarked grave in a field of landmines, 

and there, only there, might it remain safe

and untouched and unknown. 

So I did. And I had even forgotten the anger

until yesterday when he asked me for it,

and I denied its existence. Not an intentional deceit,

I believed what I said - that I am not now angry - 

but as we talked, my subconscious lowered

the needle onto the vinyl and offered this song, 

almost twenty years later, as the soundtrack 

to our conversation. And I drove home,

on autopilot, shifting gears without even thinking, 

music blaring out open windows

and salt water rivers on my cheeks, 

and as we belted that bridge, Kelly and I, 

I felt it again, as raw as the very first day,

as primal. And now I knew where to find it. 

So I sat with the rage, I sat deep within it and 

felt its fire, and wondered for a moment

if it would be all-consuming, but I faced it

as the Bene Gesserit face fear.  I allowed

the flames to pass through me and over me,

and it passed, and what remains in its path?

Me, amidst the ashes.

And as I return to the present, I realise it was true. 

I am not angry, not at you.

To say you should have known better

is laced with judgment. 

I wish you had known better, but I believe you didn’t. 

I wish you had been better.  I wish that your best

had not effaced my sense of self, had not left scars

where I was pruned to the shape you thought right.

It is not through guilt or fear that today I say:

I know you loved me and I know you did your best. 

It is with compassion, in the truest sense of the word. 

We suffered together. I know you wanted the best for me

and also

you have caused me a lot of pain

and I will accept the apology.

I know I told you it fixes nothing, and in and of itself 

it does not, but there is a latent power in forgiveness.

Forgiveness is not a passive avoidance of truth,

it is not a sweeping of dust under the carpet.

Forgiveness is active, a choice. 

It is an affirmation that wrong was done,

that hurt was caused, 

but that it holds no power here anymore,

because I choose to set us both free. 

True humility is the ability to speak the truth in love

and I affirm that you both did your best and caused me harm.

But I am done with dwelling in the shadowy fear of shame,

of being a disappointment, of causing anger.  I am done 

with hiding feelings of hurt and anger because I am unsure 

if I am even allowed to feel them. I have sat here with them, 

and I am releasing them. It is time to cross that bridge,

and burn it, taking with me my true self, the lessons learned,

and a suitcase of the best memories:

of autumn leaves in the botanical gardens, 

of iced coffees on the drive home,

of too much champagne and a sense of camaraderie,

of Sunday morning breakfasts

and Sunday afternoon Scrabble with some of that champagne, 

the only way I could get my homework done,

of the person who taught me how to write poetry.

If everything has its season, then perhaps this is mine, 

and whilst I might wish it had been different, it wasn’t,

so I will use it. I will deconstruct it all and rebuild 

the best version of myself I can muster,

and she will still make mistakes, and she will still 

hurt and fear and cry, but she will also laugh,

and she will grow, and she will learn,

and some of the joy

will be

because of you.