I met a man who experienced unbearable, unspeakable
and unspoken horrors at the hands of his
parents. He observed
that when they died he
grieved for just a moment, before
moving to the comfort of anger,
anger at the fact that they
would never be
able to restore his childhood
so violently wrenched. Then,
for the next ten minutes, he lost himself
in this rage against the world.
When he spoke of this grieving rage, I imagined
sifting through the ashes of a dying fire
discovering a weak ember of life.
But, as his rage engulfed, this ember
turned into a blaze of Pyrrhic victory burning
everyone.
I hurriedly gathered that ember
gingerly nursing it without igniting it,
to light a torch illuminating
the path to what he is truly fighting for.
I told him that he should fight
to reclaim his childhood—to be
surrounded by the safety
of love, so he can finally
play.
*shared with permission