You know when the anger boils inside you, literally boils, and your ears start getting red? Like, it’s almost comical, but seriously, your fucking ears go red. It’s pathetic and intense, and I can’t even describe how angry I have to be to have red ears.
I am so calm. It takes so much for me to even show the slightest evidence that I even have a temper in my bones. But tonight, my ears are fucking red. Do you know how long it’s been? It’s been months. I’m not kidding you.
What makes me even more frustrated about my anger, is that it’s all me. I cause it. I am the game master, and I fuck up. Do you know how often I make mistakes? Frequently. Usually, they’re excusable, and oftentimes, I’m forgiven in a beat.
I will share this odd little lesson I’m slowly learning. People don’t like experiencing the same problem more than one or two times. Me? I don’t talk to people on a regular basis. This is a significant problem. No one appreciates that.
I don’t have a good excuse. I don’t know when my anxiety and paranoia are going to flare and have me hide under a quilt for 32 hours. I have no way of knowing. It sneaks up on me, and then everyone else.
I don’t even get the opportunity to be pissed off, because my boyfriend, and my best friend, and anyone who wants to tell me anything even remotely important is pissed that it’s been three hours or four weeks without a word, and I am sorry. They are mad at me before I have time to internalize that I need to be mad at me too.
Therapy just annoys the therapist. Trying to talk to a therapist is pointless for a girl who doesn’t even call her parents. Trying to talk to a stranger about personal problems and repressed emotions won’t happen if you’re a girl who doesn’t even write about her terrors and past. Talking to a therapist doesn’t happen if you’re a girl who doesn’t fucking talk.
Writing doesn’t fix the problem. Writing usually makes it worse. Instead of becoming comfortable with my own voice, I retreat to paper and continue mashing words together until the build some pile of garbage that I can be proud of.
Just going for it, and picking up the phone doesn’t happen. Anxiety ruins people and relationships. It is the pitfall, and even the most patient will come to the end of their wick at some point. That’s what scares me the most. So many people have evaporated, and I am constantly curious who is next.