Angry. Again. Sept. 28/11

A grain of sand can set me off. The imagined tone in your letter sends me into frenzy. Everyone is counting down to my next appointment. I don’t even want to go. I’ve become that girl. The one who’s so sensitive; can’t handle what life throws her way. I will not submit to this. I will not allow the tears to drop. I will not throw punches and chairs. I want to beat a human being to a bloody pulp. Set the world on fire. If I do that, will it make me feel better?  “Evil is a point of view,” who else has my vantage point? I can talk about it endlessly. You think I should talk to the wrong person. Reveal ugly truths that I can barely admit to myself, in silence. If I disclose the tip to you, the mountain will come crashing down. It will end it all. I won’t be able to face you. You’ve seen me at my lowest. I’m embarrassed. After the hurricane, when the clouds part and I can see clearly, I’m afraid to face you. You ask me why I’m defeated. Life is defeating me; it’s kicking me for no reason. I am a rebel without a cause. Anger suggests arrogance. I’m the most arrogant asshole there is. I have two moods: angry and emotionally disturbed. I used to be funny. I try to listen, breathe, and calm down. I drink what you say to me; cling to it like a life raft. Nothing seems to help.

I blast music, try to get lost in the rhythm. I’ve memorized the lyrics to “feeling good.”  I’ve tattooed it on my arm. “Nothing takes the past away, like the future. Nothing makes the darkness go like the light.” Sometimes I feel like a ghost. Like I don’t exist or matter. There is no separation for me. Go big or fuck the world.  I need a hobby. Something to distract me. I fucking hate people. I used to be so pleasant. Downward spiral. Again. Always. This is getting so boring and tiresome. Soon there won’t be anyone left. And if I confessed? Then what? I’m so good at pushing everyone away.

Pressure coming from the inside of my head. Full of oozing puss. Black bile that leaks into every part of me. I’m coated in it; suffocating and unable to break free. I feed this monster inside and watch it grow. I revel in its repulsion. It’s like I have something and nothing to prove all at once. Beats bang around me and I’m lost in the music.  I’m supposed to be the architect of my own happiness. I’ve lost my degree and my tools. Suddenly it’s not so simple anymore. Doesn’t seem worth the effort.

Sometimes, at night, when the world is a million miles away, I pray for the courage to breakdown. Cry until I have no liquids left in my body. Unleash. Purge. Cleanse. Other times, I wonder what would happen if I acted out what’s in my head. What kind of trouble can I get myself into?

August 16, 2011

I don’t care who I hurt in the process.

I don’t care.

I’m a closet sociopath. I am Dexter before Rita.

Morbid curiosity is like candy. Lures me into a horror coma. Comatose and disturbed. The imagery in my brain is horrific. Horror. Horrendous.

Awful words swirl like a bad drink in my mind creating sad thoughts.

You are not my friend. Stop talking. I want to cut you off. If I do, I’ll regret it. I’ll create a whole new meaning for self loathing and self guilt. It will be awkward. Silent nods and heartbreaking smiles. I’ll miss you. I’ll try to convince myself I don’t care.

I’ll lock myself and plunge head first into madness.

Right now, I don’t care if I hurt you. If you’re offended by my words. I don’t care. In my head, I’m 5 again. Throwing meaningless tantrums. I fold my arms over my chest and pout. I lie on the ground and stomp my feet and bang my hands. I cry out clichés like, ‘it’s not fair!’ and ‘you started it!’  I try not to think about the fact that it’s my fault.  I try to forget what I said and only focus on your words. Your venom. I forget how to spell and how to pronounce the words.

I don’t care who gets hurt in the process. I don’t care.

I am Dexter before Rita.

If I never saw you again, I wouldn’t care.  “never mind, I’ll find someone like you...” I don’t wish you the best. If I never met you, would my life be better?

I get lost in the horror. Blood and guts. It’s so much more than that. What are you trying to do to me?? I’m lost in that scene. I need to tell you what I’ve seen, so I’m not so alone with this horror show in my head.

I am a deranged moth drawn to a deadly flame. My soul is tainted. But like a domestic slave, I come crawling for more. Salivating at the atrocities I’m about to see.  I set myself on fire every night.

I get hurt in the process. I don’t do anything to stop it. I perpetuate it. Antagonize myself and others. There is no air. In my head it all makes sense.

There is a maze of demons. I need a flashlight to navigate the darkness of my mind.

My soul is ruined.

I am Dexter before Rita.

I want to push you away. I want to tell you we’re not friends. I want to tell you to stop acting like my friend. I don’t care if I hurt you. Suddenly, everything about you makes me angry.  If I push you away, I’ll be devastated. I’ll sit heartbroken and sad.  If one more person yells at me, I’ll huddle into a corner and cry.  People are mean.

My mind is stained. Covered in unimaginable imagery. Words cannot express. I used to count on you to be my guide in the darkness. I can’t even whisper your name anymore.  My brain is like a clenched fist. Horrible images pulsate through me. I can barely breathe.

musing on the brink.

Is this my truth? Base personality so bitter. ANGRY. Raging and unable to see the calm. I am the storm; I have no calm before. Like a tidal wave it sweeps and consumes and I am defenseless against it. My lungs and brain fill with black bile that oozes throughout my being and fills every pore with hate. Why doesn’t music soothe my savage beast?

I stupidly confess to you and you want to help. I’m so out of breath, I can’t talk. I can’t tell you anything. And then I feel daft. Like a total pansy. Like a failure at life. This has nothing to do with me and I can’t rip myself off the couch and out of the house to live. I need to find something else. Something endless to occupy my time.

I run. I climb thousands of stairs. I try to expel every bit of energy so that nothing is left. I’m stripped down; naked. Nothing is left but these fucking tears. I hold onto them so tightly my soul is raw. In my head I have a million excuses: allergies, no sleep and too much eye rubbing.  I think of leaving. Of selling everything and going to my Moulin Rouge. Live a penniless existence in the shadow of France.

Fear holds me in my place. I used to be fearless. A one way ticket half way across the world and a suitcase. I built a life on a field of sand. I stare out and see the city lights; from up here it almost looks glamourous. It almost feels like a world away. The cool air drifts in and with it, the sweet scent of change. In the distance, I can almost smell the exquisite sweetness of expensive perfume. I turn away from my window.

I try to stay quiet. I foolishly think that I can hide behind silence. My body fills with blood. Shutting up is so hard. I try to push it deep down and ignore it; I try to let it go. “I don’t care” like a fake mantra that tries to weasel itself into my head. I make a pro/con list. The con is empty. I am James Dean. He ended up dead, didn’t he?