Are You Stressed?

‘Are you stressed?’ my partner had asked me this morning.

And yesterday.

And the day before.

Today, I didn’t even bother to answer. Come on, I thought, again? Really?

My glare was full of rage, I am sure. It didn’t last long, though, he is right, I am stressed. A rumbling makes me clench my fists. It is taking a toll on me, to breathe, to find words for this world of emotions that has collapsed within me.

My breath is somewhere in my chest. Or even stuck in my throat, caught by the shrieking, sharp pitch my voice has. I am not getting any words out as long as my breath stays here. I jump up. Surprised by my own sudden movement, I turn around, hands in my hair.

Relax, I tell myself.

Get that air into your body.

So I breathe. I try to expand my belly, my chest, my ribs. Get it all in there. And I do feel it. The oxygen is taking a little of the edge away, it really is.

But my partner still looks at me.

He is not seeing that inner war I am facing. He is staring into my shutdown face, that of a woman who claims to love him, but instead of answering his questions has fled the couch as though it’s on fire. Flames still licking at her skin.

Does he see the anger crawling under my skin? Lighting up in my eyes?

And does he sense how I am fighting?

Fighting with myself. This collapse within me. This tightness, the shock and horror of not knowing where to go next. The flooding of information. And of feelings, of emotions, of expectations. As if my body is not big enough, not strong enough to hold it. Yet it keeps all of this within me while screams eat me up alive. Wanting to scream, from the bottom of my heart, leave me the fuck alone.

Not you, not him.

But everything that presses in at once, without shape, without order.

So I stand there, and I fight to breathe.

Winning. The air fills my lungs, my belly, and takes up space. As if it is clearing out the worst of the emotions.

Am I stressed?

I lift my gaze. Meet his eyes.

‘I’m overwhelmed, I can’t seem to decide on my next move,’ I tell him. My voice comes out—I am proud of that. But it is clipped, hard as ice. A thick layer of anger laced upon it.

He picks up on that.

‘Okay. But why are you angry at me?’ he asks.

Calmly.

I am not! my body arches and wants to reply instantly. But a new wave of heat rushes through it, tingling in my chest, my lips, my fingers. My lips press together, my eyes shut, squeezed too tight, and I shake my head.

I am not angry at you. I think. But my voice has given up again.

Or am I?

I want to be alone.

To understand myself, to figure out what is going on. To calm that storm down.

He repeats his question. This time his voice has an edge to it.

Shame hits me as I notice, again, that anger wants to take over. In panic of further missteps, I leave the room. In the hallway, my back slides against the cold wall. My breath is shallow, yet again. It takes me a few moments, but I have practiced these past years.

I deepen my breath. My hands find their way to my belly, a movement painfully familiar to them. Images surface of moments I have lost this. Self-blame and self-hatred bubble up, urging me to move to my room, close the door, lock it, and never answer to anyone again.

But my feet stay where they are. I focus on my breath until it steadies. A deep sigh, then I open the door and step back into the living room. He is still on the couch but is not looking up.

My voice works.

‘I am still learning,’ I tell him, ‘but I am not angry at you.’

He looks up.

‘Thank you for coming back and telling me,’ he says.

Our eyes remain connected.

The anger seems to vanish. All that is left is exhaustion. Sadness. My bones feel heavy, and when he lifts his arm in invitation, I take it. Curl myself up. And then I stay there. Silent this time, but now it feels safe.

A little bruised, but safe.