She had  mostly been a docile person.  As a child, the docile one, toeing the line, never rebellious.  The teenage years were rather insignificant too.

It was not that she  did not want to go against the decree ,  or wanted  to be known as an agreeable person.

Words hurt, actions hurt,  but the middle class upbringing did not permit retaliation.  Confrontations and scenes were always to be avoided.  Venom was never to be spewed.   



The one thing that provided great succor was a piece of paper. And  a pen . 


The scrap would be  witness to the  outbursts.  But  once the words formed on the paper, slowly , level by level, rung by rung the feelings drained out. The sobs, silenced.

The scrap of  paper was soon replaced by a proper diary.   The diary of hurt, of pain and tears, she called it.  

She had once read somewhere, that anger and hurt has a voice....  Happiness brought contentment,   silence.

'Spelling'  out emotions was her way of coming to terms with  her pain.  She wrote and cleansed herself.  Didn't feel any emotion after that.