For many women, the emotion hidden the deepest is RAGE.
Taught to be nice and nurturing, gentle and sweet, patient and tolerant, to turn both cheeks, we build cellars in the mind from the earliest age and there chain up our anger, imprisoning it in dank, rat-strewn darkness.
Too often, it seeps out impotently, like flatulence – and poisons the atmosphere with passive-aggressive sniping.
But things hidden have a strange habit of being found – of erupting, spilling out, boiling over. Deep holes and tamped down earth cannot hide the purulent stink of decomposition, whether the source be corpse or immured emotion.
We are not obliged to be sugar and spice and all things nice! We do not have to conform to even-tempered people-pleasing and putting every other bugger’s needs first. We are allowed to scream and screech, rock and roll, lose the plot and our tempers, rage and…
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