Ramblings

I imagine he wouldn't be too surprised to see me, jawline clenched, fists with white knuckles at my side. He would enter the office with no hesitation; seeing me out of the corner of his eye, he would gesture towards a chair. I shake my head, hearing the sound of teeth grinding in my ears. I know he sees the steam rising from my skin as it does from a volcano, long dormant, that's about to erupt. He is the villager warning the town to flee; he understands, as no one else does, how lava and ash can wipe clean a landscape. The words spew before he can even sit down. Sulfur burns my tongue as it rolls by, the smell of anger and hatred. I pace back and forth in front of him, demanding answers. I want answers to questions, I want to see his forecast.

I imagine he is internally grinning but keeps his face somber. He nods from time to time, acknowledging what I'm saying. He is there at the moment of eruption, sees the lava spill over for others, sees it heading for relationships, for those I love. He scoops them up, one by one, so that they are spared the burns and pain of my vitriol. His skin blisters and heals for each person he scoops up, as the flow of lava and ash quickens. My words are sometimes even too heavy for me. My thoughts back up as the insults and anger refuse to budge from my tongue. I spit at him, watch it tumble down his face. I can't speak fast enough to empty the queue; sentences run together.

As with the volcano, it must eventually stop; my words start to slow. Sulfur and ash are replaced with sorrow, dark and heavy. The words are vaporous, hard to understand. He keeps nodding. He sits mute because he knows this has been building; he sits mute because he knows he is just supposed to listen. My shoulders start shaking as tiny rivulets of tears turn into tsunamis. He saw the water receding and knows a wave is coming to engulf the shore. He deciphers my words through my broken sobs. He comes to sit next to me without making a sound. He offers me Kleenex but doesn't discourage the tears.

The anger that has spewed forth is now turned in on myself. I loathe the decisions and indecisions I have made. I loathe the resentments and fears I carry as extra pounds. I have failed almost everywhere. I have hurt many with my words. My eyes are puffy, my body aching from the expectations that weigh me down. I am not surprised that the worst damage has been done to me. I am not shocked to find that the picture of myself that I carry around doesn't match the one hanging on the wall of his office. I see Dorian Gray in my picture, old and shriveled and evil-looking; his is a collage of my smiles, my successes, my failures. It's a mosaic, but as I step further away from it, I am at my most joyful, my most happy. He goes to the picture and starts removing the difficulties, struggles, trials. I can see the picture get blurry, unfinished; a Monet painting seen through a dirty lens. He replaces all that I despise, all from which I wish to escape. The picture snaps into focus.

I imagine that's why I call him Abba. He transforms that which I find ugliest into beauty. He calms the waters, quiets the volcanoes and allows me the space I need to express that which others would find disturbing.