I am not one of those women who look charmingly disarrayed when upset. I cry ugly, my face goes all blotchy and red, my nose runs, my eyes puff up into little lizard-like slits.
I don't cry quietly... I sob and gasp for breath, I am loud and intrusive, I am not private in my grief.
I don't cry publicly...
I have a toughened facade that no-one sees through. I keep it all held tightly together, wound brittle, hard, impenetratable.
And underneath seethes this raw, open scream wanting to break out. It has stolen my words, this silence, it has taken my voice. I begin to write, words tumbling, stumbling to flow onto this blog but as my fingers touch the keyboard...
And the scream continues to writhe, scrambling with sharpened claws of pain, aching to be freed.
If I let it out will my words come back, or will I vanish into the shrill?
The one where my husband was right. - I seriously couldn’t find an image about a husband being right. True story. I am on a kick of ‘fix that shit’, and the current project is my ratfucksono...
5 hours ago