I want anything. Anything. That I can find, do, throw, pound, kick. To make this stop.
This avalanche of emotion that is threatening to crumble and bury me beneath it.
But maybe that’s secretly what I want. Maybe then, I could close my eyes and go numb, and feel nothing at all.
Now, I feel everything. The weight of everything. Of this life that I did not choose. Of this identity that was given to me. That I cannot undo.
This being trapped somewhere in between. This feeling of not knowing where to go or what to do. And there is no way out of who. I am now.
There are no words, there are never the words. I cannot find them. I can only throw them, and scream them, and scrape them across the ground. Stomp them and crush them and toss them into the ocean. Burn them. Burn them until they are nothing but black ash and the scent of what has been scorched beyond recognition.
Maybe these words sound like terror. It is only the terror within me that scratches and moans to find its way out. That must claw its way out. That needs space and a place to exact its havoc and furor. Before it takes me with it.
Before I get carried away with it.
* * *
Last year was such a marathon of one emotional event after another that I had to just keep going. Now that things have slowed down, finally, I am discovering that I am basically an emotional wreck. Hence, the scary tirade of emotional writing you encountered above.
I’m having trouble focusing at work, and my emotions feel raw and sore. All it takes is just a tiny bit of pressure, and I feel on the verge of a torrent of tears.
* * *
I snapped at my husband today while I was trying to find a dimmable floodlight, and then I wanted snap myself off.
I told him, I feel so much pain but I don’t know what it is.
He aptly replied that I’ve had no time to process all that happened last year.
So, I have a year’s worth of emotion stored up, and it is only now that it’s finally getting the chance to trickle out. And I am terrified of what is to come, because I am most certainly not a lightweight when it comes to duking it out with my emotions.
I get the sense that I’m in for the fight of the century. And my fists are already bruised and bloody. But maybe that’s just the problem. I’m trying to make peace with a beast by hitting it in the eye. And the beast wasn’t attacking me in the first place. It was just nudging me in the side, looking for a pat on the head and maybe a snack.
Maybe this time, it’s not a fighter that I need to be.
* * *
Whatever punk thought up the notion that being adopted was a happy story with happy endings makes me want to vomit and kick a hole in the sky.
[Click title, "hole in the sky II," for a follow-up post to this statement.]