My Scream

A few summers ago I saw the movie Garden State. It is one of those "working-out-present-relationships-through-painful-past-experiences" type movies. It was a story about the things that we all have to do. Over and over. It was about the lessons we summon from between the windows and behind the doors that lead to the church of childhood.

My initial reaction to the movie was to want to lie right down on the sidewalk outside the theater and sob. I didn't know if I wanted to be held, or if I wanted to kick and claw and scratch at anything that came near me. Of course, I didn't lie down on Tremont Street and do any such thing. I just felt like it.

Several scenes from the movie stirred a memory of the primal scream that still rests behind my tongue. The one that bides its time. The scream that one fears will never stop if ever it makes its way to the lips.

Have you ever started to scream and felt like you couldn't stop?

That happened to me once. It was the only time I felt like I was completely and utterly out of control. It was when we were living and teaching on a small campus in rural New England. My husband and I were fighting about something. I don't even remember what it was now, but I know I felt like a cornered animal. Trapped. I could not take one more second of what he was saying. More importantly I could not take one more second of the pain that grew like a tumor in my heart.

And, I started to scream.

Just a little at first and then louder. I think we were both stunned. I ran from the house and down over the wide front lawn towards the swamp across the road. Wailing. Sobbing. It was like every scream I had ever suppressed was demanding to be heard. As my feet flew over the ground, the sky ripped wide open. The heavens mixed rain with my tears and sent thunder to punctuate my cries.

I will never know if I would have kept running that day if he hadn't physically stopped me. When he caught up to me, I fought him as if he had been commissioned to steal my soul. He wrapped himself around my flailing arms until I sank to my knees. Even as I tried to crawl away from him, he didn't let go. Only with my face against the ground, was I finally quiet. The wet grass stuck to my hot cheeks and the damp earth cradled my head.

I wonder sometimes had I actually reached the swamp if the marshy waters would have closed over my screams like a soft, woolen blanket. Muffled. And then silent.

Emerson once said: "A scream is better than a thesis." And, he is right.

We scream in fear. We scream in ecstasy. We scream in frustration. We scream in anger. And, sometimes we scream just because we don't know what else to do.

I have since learned how to sort the pain that drove me out the door that day. I do better sometimes than others. I don't go running toward swamps in a literal sense anymore, but I suppose I do run toward swamps of my own making. Trying to reach the waters to ease my pain. I run every time I feel trapped in the same pattern that sent me out the door in the first place.

I don't think that he tries to stop me any more. And, I don't blame him. Not really.