I’ve been avoiding my blog and writing for almost a month now. I thought that it was because my new job had over worked me, exhausted me, drained me, killed me. Whatever. It didn’t matter the reason, it didn’t matter if there wasn’t even a reason. Nothing mattered, and that was the problem. It’s still a problem.
I have good moments, more often than bad but lately it feels like it’s just good wrapped in all the bad. Like the good tries to rip itself free but the bad layer engulfing it is too thick. Trapping me, holding me, controlling me.
I’ve lost my temper over and over and over again. Anger has always been a part of my life. Rage. Hate. Explosive tendencies. I’ve bottled down the worst parts of it, of myself, for over a decade but it still seeps through my pores and burns like acid on anyone who dares come near me.
Monstrous? Tragic? Pathetic? Human? Definitely.
I can’t handle feelings like normal people because the second I do my chest fills with this rage…and this rage isn’t normal, it’s dangerous. When I feel that way I know I could kill someone, I know I could hurt them in ways that they’d never expect. I can hurt people I barely know with just my words if I wanted to. For 13 years this rage took control over me and I did horrible things to so many people. I blackened my heart without knowing what I was really doing, I was too young to know. Being older and wiser doesn’t help with this rage, it just adds on the guilt.
It doesn’t matter what triggers it; jealousy, pain, anxiety or paranoia. It’s everything and anything, and nothing. It’s always there. It doesn’t need an excuse to come out and make itself known. It doesn’t need to prove it’s dominance. It’s always in control.
Insecurities and distance don’t help. This nagging feeling that the words that spit out of my mouth even when I’m calm don’t matter, so why should the abusive ones matter? Why is it that those words and that tone are the ones that pass through that filter between your ear drums and the part of your brain that registers what I’m saying, when my pathetic attempts at having a calm and open discussion doesn’t seem to?
I could ask questions over and over again until I die from exhaustion, but I’d never really get any answers because there aren’t any. Excuses, excuses and more excuses. People practically spit their bullshit directly into my mouth until I’m making those very same excuses for them. Sickening. Brainwashing. Conforming. Accepting. Words that go through my head but nothing ever sticks because of feelings I have. The care that I have for these people overwhelms me and takes over.
I ignore the bullshit. My rage doesn’t.
What doesn’t help is how much I hate living here. I hate this country, the people, the weather, everything. The only thing I like is the food. The food is amazing.
My rage protects me.
I’m 26 years old and still have restrictions put on me by others. I have to plead and negotiate the right I have to move and continue on with my life the way I want to live it. Rediculous. I wasn’t raised to be a scared little lamb who needs a man to take care of her, yet that’s exactly what I’m told I need in order to move on to the next phase of my life. Rediculous. Infuriating.
I could rip my skin off with my nails.
Instead, I write.
#blog #writing #journey #rage #freedom #trapped #escape #feelings #help