Everybody always told me, “You have to get it out, into the open, so you can deal with it. So you can heal.”
When I stopped laughing, I turned the volume up on my computer’s sound system. I was flirting with having it too loud, loud enough to wake her. That wouldn’t be good, but it was a risk I took anyway.
“Get it out in the open. How does it work again? Let’s find out.”
I listened to the music. Then lowered my head, and rested it on my arms, on my desk, and let the rage burn inside my soul, as I thanked God above that I didn’t have the ability to do what I wanted.
In my mind, in that rage, I took my neighbor’s big damn pickup truck, and drove, like a man possessed. I didn’t know where I was going, and I didn’t care. Nothing mattered, except the rage, and giving it a voice. Striking back at that which had wounded me to the core.
The truck stopped moving, and through the rage, in that dream, I found myself staring at the front doors of the church I went to in high school. The church where I got told there was something wrong with me. Something different. The church that wrecked me. That judged me. That found me in need of fixing.
I let the rage run free, floored the gas pedal on that truck, and collided with the front doors of that church.
It’s Week 531 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the stories in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who show up every week.