Yesterday was a bad day. Really bad.

I am not sure I have words to adequately describe the pain I inflict on myself.  I know it is me….I mean, I am the only one here in my head torturing myself.  I am not sure what set me off…I had been feeling teary and sad and overwhelmed and then….The self-rage started.  And I was really mad….like practically pacing from the antsy energy of being so mad.  I didn’t know what to do.  I went to Facebook to see who was online because I desperately needed a distraction…but no…Only Social Strawberries was active.  That friendship is so new…so tentative, I just couldn’t reach out to her.  I ran options through my head, weed the garden? Self-harm? Walk the dogs? Watch TV? Lorazepam? But each idea had its’ own barrier…Weed? No, too hot and buggy. Self-harm? Umm….Not allowed and if I did do it, I would have to talk about it in therapy and that is always a good deterrent (though I longed for the endorphin high.)  Walk the dogs? No…Not in the daytime when people would see me.  TV? No…To antsy for that.  Lorazepam?  That was a close one…but I am supposed to be feeling my feelings, not numbing them.

I decided to go paint something.  I got out my black and red paints and dumped my anger onto the paper.  And I got madder and madder.  I just wanted to tear the painting to pieces.  When I was done, I felt worse than when I started.  And I wanted to tear myself into raggedy pieces too.


I used scalding hot water to wash my paintbrushes and for a split second the pain of the water over-rode my emotional pain…but I couldn’t tolerate the water being that hot and had to turn it down.

Edgy, antsy, angry, restless….Afraid of my feelings and their intensity.

I finally settled in at the computer and lost myself reading the blog of someone who has recently started following my blog.  I read and I read and I read until the lava searing my brain cooled and I felt like I had some control again.

With the rage quelled, I was back to feeling as though I would just burst into tears at any moment.  One or two tears might have even eeked out before I pretty much slapped them off my cheeks.  I cannot fall apart.  But it is getting harder and harder to keep myself together.

5 thoughts on “Rage

  1. Can’t fall apart? That is when the mending begins. Behind the rage (for me) was so much pain, grief, sadness…and that’s no fun to feel, yet at the same time, so real. Only in going there did I find me. I am sorry for such a load of feelings that are so overwhelming. That painting surely depicted it, bloody, gory, scary. To have that all inside is so hard, and so sad. That others could cause so much torture to your being…
    Much came out of me too: a two headed fanged snake. A horrid, bumpy warted looking penis, reds, blacks, and swirling rage filled painted pages, ghoulish hands rising up for me to bring into hell with them, a black box of scary, tarry ooze came out of me, so scary I felt compelled to ask my psychiatrist to keep the unholy items at his house until the ceremonial fire in spring. I couldn’t risk that black ooze slinking out at night to get me. The things done me as a child were that horrible.

    • I guess I just don’t trust that if I fall I apart I will ever find the pieces to put back together.

      I understand your feelings about not wanting to have the things in your home. The painting will go to therapy with me tomorrow and stay there (as have others before it.)

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