I am carrying more anger than anyone around me probably realises

Dear Delyara, Not explosive anger. Contained anger. Polite anger. Domestic anger. The kind that gets folded into tone and sleep and shoulders and irritation at innocent things because it never gets a clean enough place to exist in its own right. I am angry about how much of my life gets spent carrying. Angry about money. Angry about emotional invisibility. Angry about how many women are praised for endurance when what is really happening is quiet overuse. Angry about all the times I understood too much and left too little room for my own pain to be real in the room as itself. Because I don’t express it cleanly, it turns inward. That is what frightens me. Not the anger. What happens when it has nowhere respectable to go.