Written January 22, 2015
This whole being angry thing is really starting to piss me off. Enough already. I think I’m done with it. I think it is time to let that anger go and deal with what is underneath. You know, hurt and grief and all that fun stuff.
It hurts to hurt. It saddens me to be sad.
Just allow it. Let it flow through you.
Yeah, I’m trying. Sometimes it works.
Sometimes I wanna put my fist through a wall or run till my legs fall off or scream till my lungs burst or break shit – break lots of shit in a loud and glorious refusal of my own pain and suffering.
What a drama queen.
This is some really deep, personal and introspective shit – you’ve been warned. Save yourselves while you still can.
It’s a weird moment when you realize that you are not as in touch with yourself as you thought you were.
It’s weird when you realize that you’ve been feeding yourself line after line of bullshit and gobbling it up like it was Thanksgiving dinner. Yet here I am, with a bib around my neck, gravy on my chin, and crumbs clinging to my chest like the drunk uncle who thinks everyone likes him.
In the same way, I thought I liked me too.
Turns out, not so much.
Sure, I was angry at my mom for justifiable reasons. I was angry at God too. Mom could be a real tool when she wanted to be. Sure she planted the seeds of self-doubt in my mind and then spent a lifetime fertilizing them with criticism, trash-talking, and emotional abandonment. She did those things. And it pisses me off. And it hurts.
But I let them take root and grow. I allowed them to become the burdens of my existence. I did that.
No one else… just me. Sure, I was little and how could I have known differently? But I grew up. In growing up I had to start taking responsibility for myself, my actions and my beliefs. So here I am, through somewhat clenched teeth, having to admit that I only have myself to be angry with.
I may have been victimized, but I made myself the victim.
I decided not to like me.
I decided at some point that all of this grief and pain and suffering was part of life and accepted it. I snuggled it close and I tended to it. Then I nurtured it until it was so much a part of me that I couldn’t tell when the grief and anger ended and I began. Who does that?
I spent 20 years in defiance of my mother making something of myself and my life. But now that she’s gone? I just let it all fall to the way-side. I let it all crumble and I allowed myself to be consumed by my biggest fears.
I’ve been bitching about mom for some time now. I can’t blame mom anymore – I abandoned myself.
I don’t know if I have forgiven her yet, or if all the anger has started to clear, or if I’m just kidding myself…
But the desire is there.
That is something.
The angrier I get, the more I cry. The more I share this pitiful expression of my life, the more I open up inside.
In that open space, desire has appeared.
I want to be better. I want to get it right. Get my life right. Get myself right. Whatever right happens to mean to me. I want to do it for me.
And I haven’t wanted anything or felt like I deserved anything in a very long time.
And that is a start.
That is all.