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Killing the Silence, Killing the Thoughts

I usually keep talking to kill the silence, in just the same way as I keep doing, to kill the thoughts. Almost everyone who I wanted to tell about our seperation has now been told. Some know about M’s adultery. Nobody knows what to say.

So I keep talking to kill the silence, doing to kill the thoughts.

Jesus, people say, I don’t know what to say. The scale and severity of the cheating really does knock people cold. I find it comforting. That the lies and deceit can kick people so hard, people who have not been directly stabbed by them, makes me feel stronger than I am.

I haven’t screamed, shouted, smashed or struck out. I’ve stayed calm. A friend who’s a counsellor tells me my reaction, my lack of anger, is unusual. I suppose I’ve always liked to be different.

I overheard a woman in the theatre yesterday. She asked, in an opulent, privileged pleased-with-ones-self voice;

Would you give me the number of the police station please?

The staff acquiesed.

I think my bag has been stolen, she continued. I left it in the taxi and the driver was black.

She was tall, slim and elegantly dressed, yet her face was marked with the sourness of a thousand frowns. The body of a swan with the head of a vulture, I thought. Nothing as bitter as the bile in her throat.

Tomorrow M will come back here. She is selfish and a liar, but not as bad as the woman in the theatre. Her new place isn’t ready for two weeks and she’s nowhere else to stay.

A lot of people I know think I shouldn’t let her back. And I wonder: Should my kindness not be confused for weakness? Or my weakness not for kindness?

I need a little anger. I need to feel a little less sad about who’s leaving my life.

Dear M,

I’ve worried about him using you, of you ending up all alone. And then it struck me: In what way have you changed? Perhaps he will leave his wife and kids, and perhaps one day you’ll cheat on him too. I think I’d probably like that, and I’m sure that you would cope.

Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like
fire. It burns it all clean.
~Maya Angelou~
Olivia A. Cole

Author. Blogger. Bigmouth.

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