Sponge of Aggression

I think I figured out why my emotions boiled over this week causing me to shed tears that ultimately watered the seeds in my soul. Today during my coaching session I was asked to describe what it felt like physically when I reached the proverbial boiling point? I responded with an analogy. Have you ever wrung out a sponge by squeezing it between your two clenched fists while your wrists moved in opposite directions? The substance that once filled the sponge ran over your hands and down your fingertips. It almost feels as if the liquid travels aimlessly, but, no— it is following the path that your hands and fingers have created. Can you imagine that? Can you feel the sponge becoming lighter in your hands as its contents are released? Can you see the sponge: porous and absorbent, soft and malleable?

I am that sponge. Trapped between the hands of whatever force seeks to rid me of what has become an emotional overload. I had taken in so much negativity that my emotions were no longer useful for me or anyone else. In the months prior, I had been inundated with high profile killings of Black people, many at the hands of law enforcement officers and murder at the hands of a thug who thought it their right to police the bodies of my Black brothers, sisters and even children. Aggression. I had been reminded of how society values my work noticeably less than my White counterparts; but society is all too willing to hold my standard of work higher. Aggression. I had been reminded that healthcare providers do not take my cries seriously enough to respond with adequate treatment. Studies as recent as 2019 have shown many healthcare providers believe that Black people have a higher pain threshold and therefore believe they are justified in rating and treating our pain differently. Aggression. I had been reminded there are people who will still stand by and watch public murders as if lives are merely entertainment. Aggression.

I became filled with the aggression that had been forced on me. I felt the sponge like wringing in my chest. The heaviness took my breath away. I walked purposefully. I breathed deeply. Inhale goodness, exhale aggression. I reminded myself to breathe. Because sometimes we lose our breath. Because sometimes we say, “I can’t breathe.” Because sometimes that phrase means nothing until 8 minutes and 46 seconds. I do not have that much time, so I will no longer absorb from aggressors.