Thursday, July 7, 2011

Sedition & Suppression

If you recall from colonial American history the term sedition refers to an attempt to incite discontent or rebellion.  Sedition is an appropriate word for the struggle that often storms through my brain.  I have suffered this internal rage for as long as I can remember.  My earliest memory of this battle goes back to grade school, on the bus ride home from school.  The reason for the rage is long forgotten, the sense of mania and rage persist.

The key to this lay in honesty.  I may be too honest with myself.  Too willing to accept my perceived faults and weaknesses as truth.  Too willing to give in to the whims of others, putting myself in the lesser position, blind to my value or self-worth.  My curse is silence.  While my mind rages against me I am silent to the world.

I am not dishonest when dealing with others.  Not dishonest in so much as I do not speak the truth.  From the heart.  Making a declaration of my needs and desires.  I do not always say what should be said.  Often I hold back, fearful of the response.  My imagination creates all sorts of plausible scenarios or likely responses.  Instead of speaking up and vocalizing my thoughts I slink away and hide in shame.  I feel shame because I lack courage.  The voice in my head is happy to be allow with me.  It craves my attention.  It revels in my despair.  It feeds on my fear and anger and inability to be at peace.  For this reason even when in a crowd, when surrounded by people who care about me, I still feel alone.

This internal struggle - the voice that rages - places an obvious strain on relationships.  Until I can be honest with myself, and honest in my relationships, I cannot move forward.  This struggle has prevented some friendships from growing.  I fault the voice with severing a friendship that I found nurturing and emotional beneficial, but is now dead because this voice would not stay silent.

Allowing the voice to speak out loud is not the answer.  I have to find and develop my own voice.  Grow the courage to speak on my own behalf, before the voice has an opportunity to say something truly awful.  The voice does like to be suppressed.  It enjoys flexing a little muscle, showing me who is boss.  For a long time the voice was the man in control.  It is a megaphone with a 50,000 watt amplifier.

Did I mention that this voice, my ego, my bitterest enemy, hates running.  My breathing muffles its words.  My footfalls disrupts its own thoughts.  The sounds and movement of nature distracts me from its protestations.  Unfortunately I have not outrun the bastard yet.

What I cannot burn with speed may I drown with distance.

Should I ever insult you with my honesty allow me to apology in advance, for it may not be my intent.  A balance must be struck regarding my filter, between saying too much and nothing at all.  I am saddened though when I consider those I have hurt the most will never see this message of contrition.


  1. Preaching to the choir man. I'm right there with you.

  2. I feel the internal struggle, a split person writing this. Even some of the grammar makes it unclear which voice has control. The staccato flow and active object of the second to last paragraph speaks much.

    Here is a prayer I've been working my way through in action, verse and prose.

    The past is a place to which I cannot return. I give the spirit I wish I gave to those in my past to those in my present and preparing for those I will meet.

    I, at my best, substitute gratitude for apologies and contrition and thank those I've cared for and hurt for showing me beauty and giving worth in what would otherwise be a more empty and meaningless existence.