Get updates from Tabulous straight to your inbox! Just enter your email:

Friday, January 17, 2014

Look At Me As If I Were Magic.

Somewhere along the way, the floodgates failed.

I read somewhere once that anger is not an emotion, but a reaction, so I know that the quiet mournful rage that courses underneath my surface is a shield of sorts, a guard to hide the seething heartbreak I'm harboring. Of course, I haven't passed this by my therapist yet, this line of logic, and my therapist very well may tell me that I'm full of shit. But I have been told that it's okay to be angry so I guess that's a start.

Growing up, anger and rage and sadness were all constant in my home. It is no surprise to me to hear the words "anger management issues" come from my therapist's mouth, because I have known all of my sentient life that I, I am a very angry person. I am hotly and unevenly tempered, someone who clasps to a grudge as if the entirety of my existence on this planet rests upon my steely, unrelenting grip. I can be legitimately frightening when the barriers fall and near thirty years of feeling unleashes beyond my feeble control. I know this as intimately as I know my own name or the shade of dark chocolate laced with amber of my eyes.

Only recently have I begun to understand that all of that anger, it is the hard shell coating around my deep and soul-crushing sadness, a lifetime of pain wrapped up into this package of a woman-girl because I have never really felt grown despite having to have been for now almost literally half my life.

And when I began to chip away at just a corner of it, just a tiny bit to see the black-lit madness that lies beyond, it-me-we fractured in rippling, crackling veins across the entire circumference of me, seeping everything I've ever felt and held inside, every insecurity and self-doubt and modicum of shame oozed out into my hands and through my fingers and now, now I am coated in all of the ugly I didn't really know I was but had always feared I would be.

I am drowning in myself and I can't see a single horizon, just muddied bloody water tinged violet at the edges like the rings in my bathtub after I coat myself again, masking the scars and genes I was born with, pretending in plain view at being whole.

I want to dye it all black to mirror the remaining dredges of my heart, the frayed and weathered edges of my soul.

But I'm too scared to lose myself completely, to not know who I see in reflections when I fail to avoid them.

I am scared of everything.

My therapist says that I process my life tactically/kinetically -- that I have to do things, touch things, make things, in order to make sense of things. And that part of this is that I feel everything, both literally and figuratively.

Essentially, I am comprised of all of the feelings I have ever had, all of the feelings of all of the people who have ever been around me have had, the visceral and the ethereal and everything in between, I feel it all deeply and into my bones and there it resides eternally. And that people like this, like me, are told throughout their lives that they are wrong, they are stupid, too sensitive, too weak, too naive, too gullible. And because people like this, like me, are very much comprised of their feelings, they internalize this and it becomes the fabric of their very beings, all of these feelings of less-than and the suffering that accompanies it and thereby the suffering of everything and everyone they come across because they ooze empathy uncontrollably.

This could explain why I hoard cats, among other things.

And it could explain my fear of everything, because everything feels and I am so chalk-up on feelings right now and after a lifetime of being told my feelings are wrong or strange or make me somehow dumb having feelings at all is frightening because it is so hard to trust them, to trust yourself, when everything around you keeps falling down into piles of lies and deceit and more feelings you really don't want to have to feel again, if you don't have to, when you're not sure you ever felt anything correctly in the first place.

I am cracked open and my insides are everywhere, all over everything I touch and see and hear, all over you and me and everyone I come in contact with and I can't pull them back or wash them off. It is as permanent as the stains in the tub, however faded they appear they are still there, marring an otherwise flawless surface.

My therapist asked me what kind of love I thought I deserved and my response was whatever I can get.

Whatever I can get.

Even I can tell that's fucked up. I am comprised of all these feelings and the remnants of black hole stardust compressed into flesh and bone and my response to what I want this world to give me is, meagerly, scraps.

And there, another fissure splits and the sadness, thick and slow like bright blue tar trickles out in a single river, silvery glittered in the light, slowly falling towards whatever will catch it, even if that's just thin air. It is tacky and it smells of overly-sweet blue raspberry bubble gum yet to touch it will burn you like acid smoke from The Hunger Games, without a pool of water to counter and remedy the effects.

It will just burn you and burn you until it is all you have ever known and the taste pollutes your mouth, tinging everything else after it with a sharp sweet before a relentless bitterness steals from you even the simplest of joyful experiences.

I am too afraid to stay and I am too afraid to go and the rings in the bathtub from my repeated emotional bloodletting turn pink with shame as I gnaw on the last scrap thrown my way, half decayed and festering with the disease of the truth that blackens everything I thought I knew, everything I thought I felt and I wonder what will shatter me quicker, the hunger or the ambivalence.

I have spent the entirety of my grownup life cultivating a hardness that is the exact opposite of everything I've ever wanted to be, but it has failed and the unknowing of the future reminds me that there is nothing to be done to fix this, nothing to be done by my own hands and for a do-er, that's the ultimate form of imprisonment.

This isn't the magic I wanted to posses.

ETA: I'm doing okay. I'm functioning and finding joy in my kids and working hard on building myself back up. But that doesn't mean I'm not tremendously sad and that I'm not struggling with overcoming all of this all over again. I don't want anyone to be alarmed or concerned -- I'm at no risk to myself or others and have a truly wonderful support system around me. It's just been a rough week and I needed to get it out.