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I've always found the phrase ”chocked on my own words” to be a cliche. As if the feeling of trying to swallow back a phrase you've let bleed off your tongue didn't sting more like a razor blade hidden in your favorite Halloween candy gliding throat. Choking just isn't a strong enough verb to capture the pain of reaching for something deep in your diaphragm with sharpened nails, only to scape the edges and find nothing.

Yesterday, Mother’s Day, I swallowed thousands of words. They tasted like iron as I held them in my throat. It felt like I was suffocating the whole day, and no matter how much I coughed, the lump in my trachea wouldn’t release its grip. Simple things like talking or breathing became trivial tasks for the few minutes I was able to talk to my mom. Afterward, I choked on all the things I actually wanted to say, and odd whimper was the only thing that escaped my lips when they opened.

Some of the greatest pain I’ve had experience with is what I am forced to keep to myself. I know this is a universal struggle—our minds construct jagged piles of omitted truths and the secrets of others. This, I don’t quite know is universal, but I talk to myself. Not out loud, but my own voice can now echo through the endless hall of words of omission. There's an even more panicky version of me jouncing between piles, searching for the right words.

I've always been careful with my words. I started therapy young, and those who go to therapy for as long as me know you have to be as careful with your words as a caricature artist at an amusement park who actually wants to get tipped. This has made me good at telling people what they want to hear, and even better at hiding what is actually wrong. If I wasn’t with the one guy who can see through each mask I put on throughout the day, no one would ever see my true face anymore. My love is like the makeup wipe at the end of a long day—just being the me I am with him feels like finally rubbing your eyes freely.