not what I meant at all
This last week, a line from The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot has been coming into my head:
"That is not what I meant, at all.
That is not it, at all."
I studied this poem in first year University. I have no idea if I am taking the line out of context. I probably am. But there it is, running through my head like a sad apology.
Like a denial: That is not what I meant at all.
I am sorrysorrysorry.
You see, I had the unfortunate experience of having to send an old friend a very forthright email today. And part of me wishes I had just left it hovering in that polite place between passive-aggression and diplomacy.
Why do so many of us feel so guilty about allowing ourselves to get angry? Why do we wear our silence with such stoicism, as if our cool distance is something to be proud of? Why this urge to take it back? To keep the peace?
I've wasted so much of my life doing this:
Look how reasonable I am. Nothing ruffles me. You're hurting me, but that's ok.
But honestly, I don't have the energy for it anymore.
Infertility is making me brash.
2 Comments:
Exactly! I'm brimming with anger. I have acquired a bad temper and my fuse has become very short.
I don't feel all that guilty though, sometimes I worry that I behave in a way that isn't dignified.
Dear Meg, I am experiencing something very similar. It's one thing I am rather glad about. One thing. It's almost as if I'm being pared down -- all the fluffy equivocation is being cut away from me. Good riddance, I say.
As for your comment, I love the fact that you're synesthetic too! That's fascinating. Most people have no idea what I'm talking about! You seem to have a much stronger case of it than I do -- I'd love to hear more about how you perceive people.
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