Boil and Bubble

Lately I have been a woman filled with rage.  I had a big screaming fight the other day where I actually got all up in the other person's face and and yelled and cussed and threatened and made hitting motions with my hands.  That kind of thing makes me nauseous to even think about.  I've never really been a violent person.  I've only ever punched like... 3 dudes, ever.  One called me fat, one was rude to an ex of mine, and one threw a knife at me.  I know the feeling when the rage builds up inside of you and you feel like your skin is 100 degrees and the siren in your head starts to wail, and usually I force myself to step away from the situation before anything severe can happen.  I'm not really in control of myself in those situations, and I'm terrified to find out how far I'll go.

Back in high school (oh so long ago!) I got sent to an anger management class after a nasty little incident in which I might have mentioned a gun.  More on this story later.  I ended up getting kicked out of the class because the other people and the councilor were afraid for themselves.  It also ended up getting me kicked out of high school, but again, that is a long story for a later date.

My mom is the kind of person that will blow up easily, but just as easily forgive and forget.  Unfortunately, I inherited my father's rage, which is always right under the surface, ready to explode.  And the grudge-keeping, I got that too.  Which is something I've been trying to get over in the past few years.  When I moved away from the dark dank little chloroformed town of my upbringing, I really struggled to let it all go.  All of the pent-up hatred, all of the WAY too long kept infatuations, I really did strive to let it melt away.  And for the most part it did.  I'm now friends with a lot of the people I wanted dead because of decade old incidents.

And then something happened recently (again, I'll probably delve into it in a later post when I can talk about it) that made that old familiar rage come swimming back and made my eyes see red.  And I think I've forgotten how to cope with it.  I've been compulsively cleaning and organizing, making lists, scrubbing things clean that I've never even used.  I really just need to go to the gym and work off some of this frustration, but I'm terrified that I'll hit that exercise endorphin releasing moment and wail like a fucking banshee.

I wrote this next thing a few years ago when I was coming to terms with the stores of hate like blubber in my body.  It's pretty typical of every dumb thing I write, too much imagery, no content, sexual undertones, overuse of metaphor, and absurd references.  But it seemed to fit with my current mood, and this blog is nothing if not an excuse to log all of my failed writing attempts for the world to see, like public self-flagellation.  So here's my version of tying myself to a post and getting punched.

E can't write a novel, just a few good lines

Boasting, Bragging, Bravado.
But really just a timid girl afraid of what she might be, of the anger and violence she sees under the pale translucent skin of her chest. The pills numb, but never forget. And my cheekbones keep insisting that I'm fucking fine.

Just like Rivers with his butterfly, I destroyed the only beautiful thing to ever touch my life. I want to roll naked in the dirt, to cleanse my sins with earth as water never has. I want to consume you. I want your thighs to be my canvas. I dream of snakes and lizards and think of your body, your silent stare. I bite my thumb and pray the end is bloody and near.