I had to step out of group for a minute tonight and just pace and rage and boil. We were talking about how most rape victims and abuse victims have problems with people touching them, and are incapable of sex. And I started thinking about how I went in the opposite direction, and became a slutty McSlutslut, and how that made me weird and different, even in a room full of people that are weird and different. And I got angry at the situation that did this to me, and I got angry at myself for not EVER being a normal person, and I got angry at myself for choosing that kind of destructive behavior in response to a shitty situation, and I got angry at myself for being so fucking angry all the time. The co-facilitator tried to calm me down, by asking me if my anger was an animal, what it would be. I said a panther, because it was the first thing that came to my head, and she said that was good. I wonder what an incorrect response would be. Is there someone out there who has a penguin as their rage animal? An angry little cottontail rabbit? A mean and vengeful pigeon that shits on people? Whatever. She told me to think of that panther the next time I get angry, but I have no idea how that will be helpful in any way at all. When I'm angry, I don't have any coherent thoughts, and I can't imagine how thinking of a large black jungle cat will make that better, but I said I'd try it anyhow. Sometimes I feel like the field of psychology is a bunch of hippy mumbo jumbo, but like I said back in my drug days, I'll try anything once. Except heroin, but that's mostly because I hate needles.
Off-topic again. Sorry. My therapist seems to have more realistic methods to cope with the rage, other than connecting with my spirit animal. She suggested Krav Maga, which I'm going to look into. She also said it seemed like most of my anger is stored in my hands and arms, which, while being kind of mumbo-y, is probably true. She also suggested I do some exercises at the gym which involve my arms, because I only really work on my lower half. However I do it, I need to get some of this aggression out. I have to stop walking into a room and immediately planning my escape, I have to stop being constantly psyched up for a fight, I have to stop dressing in such a manner where I know I can fight. Little unhealthy me. My core is rotten.
I wanted to put something else at the end of this, but it turns out this is the last piece I had on Facebook, and as I said in my first post, that was really the whole point of this blog. Which means that I had nothing more relevant to put here, and also means that from here on out, everything will be brand-spanking new. Or really really old, but I'm going to shy away from those, because they all kind of suck. I guess I can make the stretch that I talk about being angry and crazy in this piece, but really I'm just talking about a boy. Which is number one on my list of reasons why my writing sucks, immediately followed by lack of content, too much metaphor, overt sexuality, over-dramatization, and dumb in-jokes. If I make fun of me first, it takes all your power away! I win!
Braveheart
My body is a little space heater, with no one to warm. Can I put my body next to yours? You elusive haunting motherfucker.
My minds flits past you, (not even the curve of your mouth, the poetry of your jolted movement, the strange sadness hidden in your eyes, your velvet rimmed song; just your name) and my chest caves in, instantly killing the invalid yellow canary that lay inside. Tingling fingertips stretch towards you, only to find you maddeningly out of reach, and the anger rises. I avoid all mention of you, while at the same time I steer my thoughts, my car, my legs towards you. The fuse to my sanity, one beam of light glinting off your curls and it sets off the train until my mental stability explodes. All sense of reality and sanity are lost, I've become a villain in my own world.
I must have you, or you must be destroyed.
My body is a little space heater, with no one to warm. Can I put my body next to yours? You elusive haunting motherfucker.
My minds flits past you, (not even the curve of your mouth, the poetry of your jolted movement, the strange sadness hidden in your eyes, your velvet rimmed song; just your name) and my chest caves in, instantly killing the invalid yellow canary that lay inside. Tingling fingertips stretch towards you, only to find you maddeningly out of reach, and the anger rises. I avoid all mention of you, while at the same time I steer my thoughts, my car, my legs towards you. The fuse to my sanity, one beam of light glinting off your curls and it sets off the train until my mental stability explodes. All sense of reality and sanity are lost, I've become a villain in my own world.
I must have you, or you must be destroyed.
