I yell because I am hurt. Because I don’t know what else to do. Because this is what my father did and this is what my mother did. I don’t yell as much as I used to. But you don’t let me talk. You don’t want to listen. You don’t want to hear what I am saying. So I hold it inside thinking I should forget it move on, be ok with it. Then suddenly I can no longer stand it. It all comes out. It comes pouring out. Then it explodes. When it explodes it doesn’t matter what you say. It doesn’t matter if you are sorry. Because explosions are monologues. They are not talks. They are not productive. They are precisely destructive. And its all because I take your unhappiness personally. I take in on board. I cannot understand why I could not make you happy. I try to change you. I am sorry. I find it very hard to accept it as it is. I am driven so strongly to believe I can make you happy if you gave me a chance. This is the voice inside me. Your depression offends me. Perhaps its ridiculous but it is the truth nonetheless. I am so offended, so hurt, I feel so very dumb, that I cannot make you happy.
