He was shouting lost in agony “I can’t do this to my children”, “I can’t leave this house”. But his eyes were saying the unspoken, the inner secret he will not speak out despite of his so wanted wish to have a voice of his own. A voice he must give to himself, not to be given by others.
It was the child within he was talking about in his torturing ignorance. The child that was not loved by mother and married another mother to take love from. Silly child, love is not claimed, is effortlessly given, love is not negotiable.
It was the child within screaming not to grow up, not to leave the “mother”. The child that was so afraid of becoming an adult, so terrified that actually made himself suffer in fake hopes, rationalised fears. He was shouting for his boy, the boy forgotten from his childhood, that boy who always kept him in fear of being free to become himself, to become something that not only others would love and admire, but that self he would not tolerate not being loved by himself and for what it is.
The shame of lacking of identity. The punishment of not being strong enough to face your demons and put them to sleep. For ever.
The price of being anything else but your true and unconditional self.