Anger and Sadness

Every time he yelled, I wanted to run away. I wanted to hide and never show myself again. I wanted to cower in a dark room in the hopes that he would never find me. But he never did. He never came for me, and he never did anything. He never hurt me, but I was still scared. It did not matter that he said it was not me. That it was just the stupid drill that could not drill through the wall. Or because he banged his head against a shelf while emptying the dishwasher. Or because he stepped with dry socks in some water. I knew it was not about me, but that did not make it any less hurtful. That did not make me any less scared.

John was always like that. He always got mad. Never sad or tired or stressed. Just mad. Always the relentless, never-ending anger. But it was a formless anger. One that had no target and therefore had no valve to turn it off. I never saw him direct it towards me or anyone else, but tiny things would set him off. When he lost a board game. When he spilled his coffee on his newly washed pants. Even when he accidentally switched to a different song on Spotify too early.

I knew inside me that the anger would never hit me, but I still recoiled every single time. I guess I did not understand because I had a different way of showing my struggles. I always showed sadness, so I never understood his anger. But I guess that is how it is when your personalities speak different languages. He, on the other hand, never understood my sorrow. When I cried, he always mistook it as if I thought the world would end, and I had nothing left to live for. It was never like that. Crying for me just felt like a release. I would cry at tiny things. When I could not open the jam jar, when I saw a dog get reunited with its owner, or when he got me chocolate. Oh, when he got me chocolate, I bawled my eyes out. I was not sad, just touched that he thought of me while shopping. He was nice.

I think his anger was a way of reinstating control, dominating his surroundings when everything else felt like it was falling apart. I did get that. I felt like that too, sometimes. But every time I did, salty tears appeared in my eyes instead of a blood rush to my head.

But his control was too much. I loved him, and he loved me, and on the good days, the laughter seemed to have no end. But I was a pushover, especially when he got mad. And I never knew when or what would set him off. His roar of fury would fill the room, and I would worry about what the neighbors thought. That he hit me or yelled at me? He never did. But I did what he said anyway. I never dared anything else. An angry person will always dominate their surroundings more than a sad person.

And I think that is where we went wrong. We lived in our own bubble and never took the time to understand each other. Even though I knew he would never lay a hand on me, I never understood why. I never understood the reason for his anger and why he would not touch me. And I think that is why I was still scared. Why I never took the time to understand him.

And I think my sadness confused him. Made him just as scared as his anger did to me. Because he never took the time to understand me or listen to the reason I was sad or crying. I just needed it, goddammit! Why is that so hard to understand? It was not about him or anything he did. Never. Oh, the irony.

Now I see that what he did not understand about me, I did not understand about him. His anger was just his way of venting, his way of letting his inner turmoil out. But I understood it too late.

I often think back in the hope that I can change the events. In the hope that I can turn back time and do what should have been done. Say what should have been said: That I love you. That I now understand. I understand that I do not need to be afraid. That I do not need to cower or hide from you. That you love me too, and that you would never do anything to harm me, no matter how angry you get. Just as I would never do anything to harm you when I am sad.

But time cannot be changed, no matter how hard you try. One day, he was gone. He had packed his bags and left me. The apartment felt so empty without his guitar. Without his pots and pans and his pillow in our bed. I cried the night that he left me, and many nights after that. For a long time, I hoped he would return. That I would see his silhouette walk up our driveway and his smile light up when he greeted me. I thought I heard his cough many times, but it was never him.

I never missed the anger, no, that I never missed. But I did miss the love. And the care. The kisses, hugs, and laughter. Especially those nights where the laughter seemed to have no end and my stomach and cheeks went into a cramp. The good kind of cramp. The kind of cramp that you feel deep within your soul and makes you love the person next to you more than you ever thought you could love anyone. Where you connect on a level that feels primal or even supernatural. I only ever felt that with John.

I guess, in the end, all of that was gone. All that was left was the anger and sadness.