Outbursts are a futile hope to change things; tantrums are the plea of the unheard, and unheard they’ll remain, maybe even reprimanded. So it’s learned to formulate your treatise, or at least seek enough power to no longer ask.
Naturally a mistake follows: that if you pull out the sutures subtly enough and thread your quilt of repressed feeling more presentable, readable, maybe even endearing – that somehow this is above the tantrum.
Well, so you may find it inevitably learned as no different. Cursing your inadequacies in a Sophisticated way won’t lessen its destructiveness.
You could perhaps fall in love with your creations, but they’ll succumb and tatter with our world’s inertia: swallowed and sectioned whether in duck tape or carpet red fence, so it decays. Shoved in the back of the shelf to make it fade.
And it will, if you want. It’s a skill issue to tend to old wounds. It’s a skill issue to complain. Complaining or demanding are all the same path to hell.
Statements turn into stakes with enough distance; you only wonder why you nailed so much into you through the years. You wonder how others still do the same.