I have a lot of anger about my childhood - being hard of hearing

Host: The room was small and quiet, yet heavy — the kind of quiet that doesn’t soothe but listens. Rain fell against the windows, slow, deliberate, like a hand tapping at forgotten doors. The light was dim, cast by a single lamp whose glow seemed to fade before it reached the corners.

Jack sat in an old armchair, his hands clasped, his eyes lowered — the kind of posture that betrayed an argument with ghosts. Jeeny sat across from him on a wooden chair, her hair pulled back, her expression gentle, though her eyes were sharp with knowing.

Between them, on the table, a notebook lay open. Inside, written in careful ink, were the words of Lou Ferrigno:

“I have a lot of anger about my childhood — being hard of hearing and my relationship with my father.”

The air itself seemed to tighten around the sentence, as though unwilling to exhale until they spoke.

Jack: quietly “Anger’s a strange inheritance. You never ask for it, but it becomes your first language.”

Jeeny: softly “And you never really forget how to speak it, do you?”

Host: The rain deepened, the rhythm syncing with their breaths. A faint hum came from the heater — the kind of background noise that filled silences too tender to touch.

Jack: “Ferrigno’s words… they hit something. That kind of anger — it’s not rage, it’s residue. You think you’ve moved past it, but it stains everything you build.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not meant to be erased. Maybe it’s meant to be understood.”

Jack: “You sound like a therapist.”

Jeeny: “No — I sound like someone who’s been angry too.”

Host: The lamp flickered, a brief pulse of gold through shadow. Jack looked up, his grey eyes catching that light for just a second — hard, reflective, tired.

Jack: “He talks about being hard of hearing… you know what that’s like, metaphorically? Spending your whole childhood trying to hear love that never quite reaches you.”

Jeeny: quietly “And learning to live with the silence that replaces it.”

Jack: “Exactly. People think anger is loud. But it’s not. It’s just silence that’s been waiting too long to be answered.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her cup, her movements careful, like she was afraid of spilling memory.

Jeeny: “Do you think he hated his father?”

Jack: “No. Hate’s clean. Anger’s messy — it’s love that’s gotten stuck. It’s wanting to forgive but having no one who knows how to ask.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re talking about yourself.”

Jack: pausing, then half-smiling without warmth “Maybe I am. Maybe we all are. Some people inherit their father’s eyes. Others inherit his silence.”

Host: The rain softened, now whispering more than falling. The lamp light pooled around them like confession.

Jeeny: “Anger’s easier than grief, though. It keeps you standing. You can’t fall apart while you’re fighting.”

Jack: “Yeah, but fight long enough and you forget what peace even feels like.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the work — learning how to put down the sword without losing yourself.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his voice lower now, almost breaking.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? I think Ferrigno wasn’t angry because of the pain. He was angry because no one saw it. Because being half-heard made him invisible.”

Jeeny: “And invisibility is the cruelest wound of all.”

Jack: “Exactly. You can survive cruelty. But being unseen — that’s a kind of death.”

Host: The wind brushed against the windowpane, carrying a faint echo — the hum of the city below, the lonely chorus of unspoken things.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why he built himself into something visible. His body, his strength — his way of saying, look at me now.”

Jack: “Yeah. The body as translation for what the voice couldn’t say. Every rep, every muscle — a word in a language of rage.”

Jeeny: “And yet, underneath it all, the same question remains — does being seen ever heal the child who wasn’t heard?”

Jack: after a long silence “No. It just makes him louder.”

Host: The light trembled, casting shifting patterns on the wall. Jeeny watched Jack’s face — the way his jaw tightened, the way his shoulders curved as though carrying years of weight.

Jeeny: “You ever think anger can be holy?”

Jack: startled “Holy?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Like fire. Destructive, yes — but cleansing too. It burns what’s false. Maybe that’s what he meant by carrying it into adulthood. Not as vengeance, but as fuel.”

Jack: “Fuel burns, Jeeny. It doesn’t forgive.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes forgiveness comes after the fire, not before it.”

Host: A moment passed — quiet, heavy, alive. Jack turned his gaze toward the window. The reflection of his face stared back — faint, double-exposed against the rain.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? We spend our lives trying not to become our parents, and somehow we still end up carrying their ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Maybe carrying them isn’t failure, Jack. Maybe it’s the only way to understand them.”

Jack: “Understanding doesn’t erase pain.”

Jeeny: “No. But it softens it. Turns it into something you can hold without bleeding.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving only the gentle ticking of the clock. The air felt different now — not lighter, but clearer, as if something unspoken had been named and released.

Jack: “Do you think Ferrigno ever made peace with it? The anger, the silence, the father?”

Jeeny: “Peace isn’t a destination, Jack. It’s a practice. You make it, lose it, and make it again. Every day.”

Jack: “That sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “So does carrying anger.”

Host: Jack exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that’s part surrender, part relief. His voice softened to almost a whisper.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think forgiveness isn’t for them. It’s for the part of you that still believes they could’ve loved you better.”

Jeeny: “That’s the truest kind. The one that frees the child without forgetting the pain.”

Host: The lamp flickered one last time, then steadied. The two sat there in silence — not the heavy silence of before, but one that felt alive, breathable. The kind of silence that begins, not ends.

Host: “Anger, like Ferrigno’s, is not just fury — it is grief that refuses to vanish. It builds walls and bodies and resolve. But beneath it lies the same truth: every scar is a conversation waiting to be finished. And sometimes, strength is not in lifting the weight, but in finally setting it down.”

Outside, the first light of dawn slipped through the clouds, soft and unannounced. Jack and Jeeny didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The room — and everything within it — had finally learned to listen.