Inhibition

I still want to hate him. 

Every time I have to say no to my kids because we can't afford something. Every time one of them has a panic attack. Every time one of them has to scramble to find a father figure for an activity. Every time one of them has a flashback or gets depressed or is afraid.

I want to blame him, and I want to hate him. I want to roll up the anger into a ball and ram it through his heart and watch him disintegrate with the power and weight of all the destruction and pain. I want him to truly feel and know what he's caused and what he's lost.

I want to deeply feel this so I can sit in it and own it and process it and release it. But when I try to really get there, I can only see him as what he really is. I can only see him as a terrified little boy who is so afraid of himself and of the world that he won't ever face it or fix it or acknowledge it. When I really try to hate him, I just feel sorry for him.

I feel robbed of something. I feel like I haven't had the chance to release so much anger because I don't know where to direct it. I want to fall into the darkness just for a while and let myself unreservedly despise, loathe, blame, resent, and attach the pain to something, someone outside of myself. I want to not have to own it myself for a minute. But something in me won't let me do it.

My therapist gave me a "temperament analysis" test. Among other things, (some of which I scored well on), I am inhibited in my expression. I thought it was all tied to sexual inhibition, because I haven't been able to truly express that for over five years, but as I've been examining it, I can feel anger there. A weariness of always being so patient and turning the other cheek and not being heard. Perhaps that's it more than anything. It's less about expressing anger and more about being unseen and being unheard.

My ex will never see or hear the cries of his children that I have to comfort because of the trauma they've experienced. He will never acknowledge or understand the true depth of the pain he's caused them. He isn't capable of it. He will never acknowledge my own pain and suffering bearing the burden of raising our children almost completely on my own, even when we were married. He has never had, nor will he ever have, the capacity to see any of it. He is so entrapped in his own darkness, loneliness, and fear, he is incapable of seeing or hearing or acknowledging anything else.

And so I cannot hate him. To hate him, blame him, would be to be like him.

So even though my children and I will never be seen or heard by him, I will see and hear us all. I will hold and nurture and love and cry and own my part of the darkness so my children--and myself--can see how it can be done. I can at least own my own part of the suffering and pain. I can own my own part of the trauma and fear. I can own it and face it and process it and let it go so my children can see and hear by example. I will be both mother and father, masculine and feminine, darkness and light, yin and yang. The added weight and difficulty and pain only serves to provide more opportunity for strength and triumph and joy. 

Someday, perhaps, instead of wanting to hate him, I'll want to thank him.

Naw, that's going a bit too far.