When will I let it go?

I feel the pain residing inside me, bubbling under the surface like a stew waiting to boil.

It feels so close, and yet when I reach to grasp it, my fingers return empty.

Pain delayed, deferred to another point in time. Pain shoved down to commingle with decades-old wounds, fermenting inside me, becoming unrecognizable to its original form.

My mother has left and yet her presence remains. My consciousness denies the impact of her visit. I’m unwilling to allow myself to feel it. This is a habit I’ve been honing since I was a child — the ability to detach, to convince myself it’s “not that bad.”

An age-old trick to get out of processing those emotions that are too confusing and disturbing to meet head-on.

I’ve held space for so many of my mom’s tears and yet I ignore my own, waiting for the day when I’ll finally unleash them.

Looking into her eyes as she speaks of vulnerabilities I’m unwilling to confront in the moment, the lid cracks. And I consider it. I consider letting myself be seen, allowing myself to break down.

But just as quickly, I slam it shut, refusing to allow myself to break down. This does not feel safe, I tell myself. This is not the right time. But even then I’m not convinced. I know it’s fear and not discretion that pushes me to keep my emotions at bay. Repressing them until they will no longer be silenced.

And then it will not matter if it is the right place or time. They will take me over, possess my entire being, and then they will have their revenge. They will show me why it is that denial is not the preferred path.

This has become a cycle in my life. One in which I do not know how to break. I wish I could cry soft tears of mourning instead of waiting until my body shudders to breathe.

I wish these tears that I feel now at the base of my eyes forming would fall. That I could will them to do my bidding. But they have listened too well. So instead of letting go, they hold on, determined not to fall.

Oh, how I wish I was better at this. But this armor, built and sculpted over a lifetime, will not break so easily.

If only I could plunge my hand deep inside myself and turn that key that has become rusted and jagged from lack of use.

What will it be, I wonder? What will it be that cracks me open like an egg ready to be scrambled?

When will feeling no longer feel like an enemy?