This Is Not Release
The room was padded with permission.
Thick walls. Locked door.
A place where breaking things was finally allowed.
Bottles stood like witnesses.
Plates stacked like excuses.
A bat placed in my hands as if violence could translate grief.
They said, hit it.
So I did.
Glass screamed.
Ceramic gave up easily.
The floor filled with pieces that used to be whole.
For a moment, the noise felt good.
Like maybe pain just needed somewhere loud to go.
Like maybe this was what release looked like.
Then everything stopped.
No echoes.
No applause.
Just me, breathing too fast in a room full of ruins.
And that’s when it landed.
Get Irish Fernandez’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
It wasn’t the bottles that shattered.
It wasn’t the plates.
It was the lie I kept telling myself —
that this was anger.
That I was here to destroy something.
When really, I was here because I didn’t know where else to put the hurt.
Because rage is easier to admit than loneliness.
Because breaking objects is allowed, but breaking down isn’t.
I didn’t need a bat in my hands.
I needed someone to see me after the noise was gone.
Someone to stay when there was nothing left to hit.
But the door stayed closed.
And I understood then —
this room was never about release.
It was about containment.
A space to fall apart where no one had to witness it.
So I stood there, surrounded by what I destroyed,
realizing the only thing that walked in whole
was the version of me that thought this would help.
And when I finally left the room, I carried everything with me.
No glass in my hands.
No plates at my feet.
Just the same ache in my chest —
quieter now,
heavier,
and completely untouched.
