I am Centralia
I realized today that I have a lot of fight built up in me.
I needed it to take care of myself when I was a teenager. But now that I'm an adult, that fight no longer serves me. It hinders more than it helps.
Perhaps that's why all these feelings have been bubbling to the surface lately. Just like in grade school, I've arrived at palace where I can't always take good care of myself. In school, the teachers stood in the way. The math teacher stole and read my journal. The guidance counsellor turned me away at the door when I was shaking and crying during a panic attack, because she didn't want me to use her office as an excuse to skip class. The English teacher, when I confessed I didn't understand Leaves of Grass, sneered, "I thought you were smarter than that."
I couldn't get the anger out of my system because that was the year of Dylan Kleibold and Eric Harris. The year that any hint of frustration was sign of impending massacre. So I shoved the anger deep inside me and let it burn, its toxic fumes belching up on occasion, scorching land.
Now I'm stretched thin but it's because of the demands of parenthood and adult life, and those old fears crop up in me: that I'm not allowed to do what's essential to maintain some level of health. The same old anger returns. That same stubborn resistance. I will thrive. I will thrive. I will.