Yesterday, from out of nowhere, an explosion: three short, sharp, wretched, retched-out screams of. Something. I don’t know what. Gone, directed into the ceiling. Smacked into concrete, plaster and cheap whitewash. Pummelled into the roof over my head. Temporary relief. A brief respite. But oh, too quick. Fleeting. By the next morning, I’m once again viciously drunk and unstable on seething.
I am not a violent person. Far from it. (Sounds like a defence of the brutal spirit: a “…but I would kick you repeatedly in the stomach until you coughed up blood” statement. No, nothing of the sort. Just the cold, hard truth.) Seeing and experiencing certain events at various points in one’s life tends to set a person’s face against violence. Forces one’s body to recoil from it. Violence becomes terrifying, nauseating. It resides only in the mind, in thoughts, and in words occasionally written in black on white. The mental image never provokes a physical action. That’s the story in my case, at least.
Yet there is rage, I cannot deny it. Untrammelled, unalloyed rage. I know it’s there inside me. I feel it. It pollutes me. My body stings from it, my head aches from the forced drugging. I want it gone. But where does one send such an overwhelming emotion? How does one release such powerful rage when acts of violence remain, thankfully, so abhorrent? Wretched screams into thin air, into nothing, can’t be forced.
My body argues with my mind. My head falls out with my heart. My face can’t bear to look at my hands. I feel too much because, I surmise, I’ve forgotten how to feel anything but this one toxic emotion. Remind me.