June 8, 2025
Static Silence.
Tonight I felt rage.
Unreasonable, unrelenting, and out of control.
My sole reason for ongoing sanity in this forsaken world, my sister, also happened to be the instigator of what could only be described as an adult temper tantrum. And yes, I’m being generous calling it adult; it was anything but.
My mother is visiting from Tasmania, our home. My sister, her partner, my mother's husband, and I went for dinner at a quaint, vibrant pub. There was a fire in the corner, drinks flowing, and food that, while typical of a pub, was warm and comforting to the stomach.
Emily, my sister, and I got into a small disagreement over a comment I made. A woman at the bar, dressed in very little despite it being the middle of winter, caught my attention. I made a remark one I wouldn’t have wanted her to hear. My sister was justified in calling it out. I'm proud of her, really. She’ll defend a stranger to the point she's blue in the face, even one who will never know or thank her for it.
What followed was a back-and-forth, mostly on my end, where I tried to justify the unjustifiable, knowing I’d already crossed the line.
“It’s not right for you to judge a woman for her outfit. You know nothing of her,” she said.
And rightly or wrongly, I did what I always do I dug in. I was enjoying the debate, even as I lost it. Then I made a final, ludicrous remark about the woman’s attire and the judgment she brought on herself. I won’t repeat it. I’ve shamed myself enough for one night.
As my tone grew louder, my reasoning more animated, my sister cut me off. A hand to my face.
“I’m done with this conversation. Let’s move on.”
She turned her body away. Turned toward the others. Isolated me.
Something inside me short-circuited.
Excruciating rage surged through me like electricity. My fists clenched. My eyes widened. I locked eyes with my mother’s husband.
“Breathe…” he said, calmly.
My sister knew what she’d done. And I knew, painfully, that it wasn’t the topic of the argument that enraged me; it was the interruption. The dismissal. The sudden severing of a thread I needed to finish.
I must finish. My thoughts. My sentences. I must be heard.
If not, something old and wounded in me stirs. Loudly.
She let me finish. We briefly discussed my frustration about being interrupted. I apologised for my distasteful comment. We moved on.
I wish that were the end.
Though the threat of eruption had passed, I left the pub not long after. Quietly. Casually.
Once in my car, alone, I realised the closure wasn’t enough.
I screamed. Loudly. Violently.
I screamed until my voice was hoarse, until my lungs gave out.
All the way home.
This, I know, isn’t normal.
Michael.
You left without a goodbye.
You left me with too many questions.
You left me a broken man.
You left me with the ever-existing need for closure, which I will never get.
Through this action, you're life goes on.
Mine forever soiled.
Forever longing.
Forever stunted in growth. I hate you for that.