the angry bloom

January 6, 2012

Hard and harsh and quick because I’m angry. Angry because I’m hurt. Hurt because I’m tired and overreacting and reacting to things she wouldn’t have known she triggered, small fuses that are always set in my head for pain. But it makes me furious and tired, furious because there’s no way I can stop hurting and because it’s- because I’m– all one big damn tangled mess, and tired because it takes too much effort to care.

It’s the litany that never stops. Other people hurt me, intentionally or not, and because I want to hurt them back but know they-don’t-know-what-they’re-doing-and-it’s-not-their-fault,-not-really, I don’t, I can’t, and I turn and hurt myself. The fault must be mine, clearly. Someone must pay. So I intentionally destroy myself. Rape myself dry, dissect my intestines and pull them out in bloody black gaping handfuls, wear them invisible around my shoulders. My own voices in my head, voices in everyone else’s voices- they’re my flagellation and my residue and my hatred of everything that is me, everything that is hurt, that can be hurt, that was hurt, everything that hurt me. It’s like I try to destroy myself as a form of spite.

 

It’s interesting. The thing that triggered this was small enough for this to be considered an overreaction (watch me start to justify for the voices in my head, watch me go) but this is also evaluation, this is seeing things logically. Fuck off, voice in my head that tries to argue with me over cliches.

I have enough voices in my head already. I have enough people belittling me already, I don’t need fucking more, and that is what hurts, because that’s another one, another one to wonder whether I have to be careful, whether we break out the eggshells and the walls and the not-trusting. Overreaction and I probably don’t need to, but. I don’t need more of these. I have my father, for God’s sake, everything that the word holds, too big and too small to fit into two syllables, the word itself insignificant already on the page. Too small to hold everything. And I have all the voices in my head since then, all the friends who were knives and needles, and all my own voices and the voice I give an uncaring, critical God. Of course I’m fucking exaggerating, of course there are children getting raped and AIDS in war-torn lands and you know what, my issues don’t hold a torch to theirs. First world problems, innit? Fuck. This all makes me want to hurt myself.

 

I never did it physically. Was never a cutter. But I’m more and more finding out the roots of my depression and this, this rage is one, this fury. Depression is anger turned inwards, they say, and maybe, maybe. Maybe. I wanted to hurt myself and I did it in all the ways I could that never showed or bled. Still do. Self-destructive tendencies, fury and anger and bitterness and laughter that cuts inwards. Always I forget I’m more wounded than I am but oh, the only people who talk about how wounded they are are emos and goths and thirteen year olds.

 

Kindness. No kindness. No kindness.

 

Fucking kindness. It makes me tired of being alive.

 

I’m tired and overreacting. But this is good testing ground, seeing where things hurt. Where the problems are. This is how I think, see? This is how I work things out, where I prod and push and see where things give way. And I wouldn’t need this explanation if I wasn’t aware people were reading it, people I know, people I have to interact with, and I don’t like that, I don’t like that at all. I don’t trust people I know to be kind. I don’t trust anyone to be kind or to love me. Let alone God. I’m all daggers and words and walls. Glass broken so you only cut yourself.

But I’m here and you’re here, probably, unless I make this private but I made this blog on purpose, to chuck things out into the silence, silence that was supposed to be bigger than this, less claustrophobic, less wearyingly familiar. I don’t know why I let people I know see it. Stupidity. Self-destruction. God. Whatever. There’s the anger, there it is again, like a wild bird across the fields. Spot it. Shoot it down. Examine it, take out the intestines, the tiny liver, the still-beating heart. Your hands are bloody. So what? What does it say? What can you read, augur, in the bloody beating body with the wild eyes, still staring up at you, still blinking, asking why? Why?

 

So humiliation, belittlement. Those things are my fuses, my short fuses. Not hard to trace back. I’m probably too tired to make a proper analysis of this, a clearsighted one, but this’ll do for now, small findings in the dirt. Belittlement fires me up because it’s the thing I fight most in myself, my own voices.

It’s time for bed. Sleep makes things- more distant, more stable. Then I can answer the questions tomorrow with a better perspective, the what do I do? and what do I do? What do I do? Practical applications of these issues, they’re never easy. I’m fairly aware of many reasons why things won’t change and we’ll rough it over and continue as usual. But at the same time there is my usual reaction to hurt, which is to draw back and trust less. Anyone’s reaction to hurt. Burns you, don’t play with it.

My automatic reaction is to step back, pull my hands back, care less. Trust less, be less, give less. Be all face and less soul, smile more, laugh more, invest less. Trust less. Don’t play difficult games with people when you’re tired, draw back from social interaction, draw back from people. Build more walls. But I know it’s a reaction. All the learned sensible voices in my head, all my psychologists and counsellors, dear blessed Marian, wonderful Rachel, clinical psychologists who gave me sensible voices- their leftover common sense says that it’s a reaction to something small because I’m tired, and while it hurt, that’s okay. It’s not a big deal, and though it hurt, and though I certainly can let myself be hurt, it was small enough for me to note it, note what causes it, and let it go. I’m still friends with this person, and our friendship is big enough to handle it, character flaws in myself, character flaws in her. It’ll be okay. I’m fairly sure.

Mn. I really need to think through finding a new writing-space. I can’t sit through this awkward write-for-other-people?-write-for-myself? every time. Really stops me thinking clearly.

Bed. God who is somewhere somehow kind, God who gives me psychologists with common sense, keep me and bless me. Or something. I have little hope of this. Life is full of stuff like this and my head is full of stuff like this and since I’m over being suicidal or avoidant, the only thing I have left is to be bitter and grimly amused and highly aware as I slog through the shit.

Isn’t being alive wonderful.

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4 Responses to “the angry bloom”

  1. A rose Says:

    by any other name

    thorns and frail
    dung and tender hands
    needles, bark, foreign lands

    and prickly pretty
    a song of brown, red
    careful, keep ‘way dead

    rsh rrr-tsh whistle whoop
    drops of wine
    rsh rrr-tsh ha ph loop
    pricks of thine
    fragment shard clair hard
    mossy teeth poppy seeth

    A rose by any other name
    yet only mirage of the dame
    cannot know you, can’t know me
    can tend still, can tend to me

    Oh buds. Watching
    thee not
    only only touching –

    smelling the wonder.

    —-

    You can’t fall you are rooted
    Only the winds think you so

    Prick the wind.

    —-
    —-

    Ree


    • bloodless and heedless, the wind
      combs back the long head of the fields, the dark dirt knowing
      nothing more than what it feels
      the dung of itself growing, useless and growing.

      sprout me an excuse. if the dirt brings roses in
      tracked on the carpet like giant cabbages, formless and dull
      they are scentless. they have no worth.

      if the bud wipes itself clean on the doormat, leaves
      the front stoop white and unflecked with colour
      lying between its feet:
      it is heartless. it has no worth.

      we plant ourselves a miracle, expecting it to come
      high up with the tallest of the sleeping blooms, the wide-eyed reds
      the poppies like explosions of heat, light, summer. in your hands
      the heat of your own face,
      given something true. trust it not.
      it is broken, it has no worth.

      roots are shallow, broken, dead.
      dirt is all, and dirt
      is all, and though the wind seethes
      hot through broken glass,
      though the rose become wonder
      beyond wonder beyond belief,
      though moss, light, water all fall
      into the split moment between breath
      and next breath,
      dirt is all
      dirt is all
      dirt is all.
      dirt is all.

  2. Ree Says:

    And crap is the world
    and the world is crap
    what’s it to the maggot
    to the saprophyte

    there is no white, anyway
    but being blinded
    there is no black, anyway
    but being blind

    the horizons?
    a trial, no
    a judging, no
    a sentence, no

    only man trials
    only man judges
    only man sentences
    only, every judge speaks different words

    an aesthetic of vile
    is what the centuries all want
    an aesthetic of beauty
    is what the centuries tried to have

    Still. And the world glitters and and reeks
    roadkill or buds
    of mold or daisies
    and shrugs and goes on.


    • who is the bell that swings the horizon
      and bangs it in response to make the sun come up? once, twice
      the sound a reply
      to nothing in particular, nothing at all.

      there is the morning paper
      lying by the roadside, floating in the ditch
      covered in weeds. there is your bedspread
      covering the earth in its nakedness.
      there are your eyes on the ground. watch them
      watch them empty out like pools
      watch them grow.

      when the house is vacant, the world moves in.
      when the world is vacant, the vastness moves in.
      when the vastness is vacant, then, too, the world is shrunk
      and the house is gone
      and what is left is the small seed fire in the pale
      palm of your hand, a little hollow of light
      burning up the skin, making itself known
      saying here I am, find me.

      man judges.
      man finds.
      man speaks, and entropy
      turns from his dirt like worms
      to the dark, secret pockets of the earth.

      man speaks.
      man judges.
      man finds, and everything he finds
      rots beneath his pressing hands, his pressing breath,
      his dying skin. he has no answers.
      man has never had answers.
      man asks all the questions, one by one.

      who, then, bangs the hollow shape of morning
      until it rattles and falls out against the sky,
      the first dead thing in the light?


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