Mitchell's Mustard Blog

October 12, 2017

Confession of an angry man

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 5:57 pm

‘I have options’.

I’ve never been the easiest person to get along with, my armour is incredibly hard to penetrate. I don’t give anything away easily, my mind is a locked box of troubles and turbulence, tears and anger.  The inner me wants to see things burn, see myself burn. I’ve been like this since I gave up drugs. I’ve learnt to bite my tongue and swallow the blood. Sometimes I think I fear confrontation but in honest truth I fear never knowing which way it may go, how far I will go. I fear saying or doing things that can’t be taken back. I went through depression for a couple of years and came to terms with my troubles. We shook hands and agreed to stay on our own sides of my skin but every now and then I find myself questioning my decision. Maybe I should embrace my inner anger? I’m not too worried if people don’t like who I am, but I am worried that I won’t like who I will become. To meet me I have a calm and placid facade, jokes and tomfoolery. But like an old penny, I have another side, a side laced with melancholy thoughts, an anger that resides, kicking and screaming to be heard.    

But, just like that old penny I always remind myself that there are two sides, there are options. At any given moment I could go in swinging, frothing at the mouth, but I am thankful that I can compose myself. Walk away with my head held high while I extinguish the fire that licks the back of my teeth. I have options.

I understand that the voice inside that wishes to see my world in flames isn’t going anywhere any time soon, but I do hope that he eventually finds peace in the decisions I make because one thing he will never take from me is the other side of that old penny.

Advertisements

May 13, 2017

Bruised

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 1:14 pm

He had come home from school with another bruise, another one to add to the collection. This young boy full of charisma, charm, and joy when encased by the families four walls ached physically and mentally without a peep. His mother could hear him quietly weep in the morning whilst getting ready for school, which in turn made her cry for answers, but he was proud and strong and a shrug of the shoulders was the answer to all. He often came home with rips in his clothing, when doing his washing she would find blood stains on his sleeves, his explanation was yet another nosebleed. She watched her young boy battle in silence, the more pressure she applied for answers the more he closed up and became aloof around her. She had spoken to the school on numerous occasions but they explained that without her son coming forward they couldn’t pursue. A promise to keep an eye out for him was lost in communication because he had come home again with a cut on his head, an accident he had explained. His eyes told another story, a silent uncomfortable story. Over the last year his character had changed, her brave little boy seemed to fear the outside, and worst of all, fear the inside. His brave little smile had left, his charisma had been removed, joy was a thing of the past. She confided in friends and family, ‘troubled teens’ they’d say to put her mind at rest. But she could see the screams behind his eyes, the damage to his body, the way he flinched at movement.

  She had heard him weep again in the morning so she confronted him, no prisoners, she wanted answers. Where had her charming and enthusiastic boy gone? What was happening?

  As she broke down, so did he. He was curled in the corner lost and fearful, she had scared him. She knew she needed to apologise . . .   

   . . . But it was too late, that day he had taken his own life. She wished someone had listened, wished she had worked harder to get to the truth, wished her little baby boy had opened up. But, all the wishes in the world had expired. Stood by his graveside she cried for today, cried for tomorrow, and feared whatever followed.

Blog at WordPress.com.