I have more anger in me than the people I love probably realise

Dear Delyara, It arrives sideways. In the sharpness at the wrong moment. In the need for silence. In how intolerable one more question can suddenly feel. In the speed with which my body hardens by evening. In the private fantasies of being left alone for twelve whole hours with no one needing me to be emotionally useful. I am angry about money. About being overused. About how many women’s lives are held together by their capacity to keep functioning while privately disappearing. About how often I have made myself manageable in order to avoid being called difficult. About how much of my own emotional truth I have translated into smaller more digestible language for the sake of everyone else’s comfort. The anger itself is not the danger. The silence around it is.