The Monster Called Repression

I tend to repress. That was, for quite some time, the mantra. It was the way I managed. Closed up. Protective. Fearful of losing control. Over the years, I’ve learned to speak more openly about whatever it is I may be dealing with.

But it’s not always easy, and I find myself reverting back to what I can assume is the place I feel most comfortable: my mind.

Into the depths, I peer. What I find are the familiar tomes of a sensitive young man. Down there, I see hints of the anxiety, the melancholy, the grasping for control in a place in which all that around me is out of control.

It’s no longer your fight, I tell myself. They’ve made their choices. And this is your choice. Your mind. Your lens to view the world.

I remind myself to be aware of my emotions. To choose to understand them. To know why I am thinking, or feeling, a certain way.

Get if off of your chest. It doesn’t need to be there.

They’ll listen. I am certain of it.

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