My heart yells. My soul screams. My brain melts. I want laser vision so I can blow up some stuff nearby. To the outside world, I appear calm, except for my jutted jaw and clenched teeth. I know that soon I will explode. The tea kettle in my oblongata is whistling with the force of a train. I juggle the steaming, white hot, balls of fury quickly to try and not add, “my hands are scalding”, to the list.
Sometimes I can feel relatively calm. I can pretend that the scalding balls aloft before me don’t burn me as much as they do. I gently try and blow on them as they pass by my face. They heat my face, my chest. They singe my hair, my eyebrows. I smile, exteriorly confident, interiorly terrified.
I set the balls aflame. I made a mistake and the tumultuous balls, buzzing with kinetic energy, ignited. I tried to juggle faster, thinking it would quelch the fire. It seemed to help, temporarily. I couldn’t keep up the pace of the circus act and the fires raged even higher. I smiled even broader. I tried to distract myself from the pain and applied for more jobs, let myself dream, read books of parenting, read books on spiritual growth. I listened to professionals. I backed off, yet remained present. I addressed the hostility and alienation directly, indirectly, upwards, backwards, sidewards, and any other wards. I clamored. I pleaded. I gulped. I prayed. I rested. I persist. I am told of the long range benefits despite the absence of solace currently. I am told I just need to juggle some more.
I am tired. I am sad. I am hurt and lost and frustrated and appalled and angry and overwhelmed. I persist. I continue to juggle. I wonder how long the balls will want to remain aflame. I know I don’t want to let them go, but also that I can’t keep it going indefinitely. I persist. I am tired.