On nights like tonight I’m filled with the need to push out the words just so I can avoid the ugliness that lurks in the silence. Those infected, poisonous thoughts that would rip a person’s soul to shreds should they slip from between my lips. In the shower I was thinking about my appointment tomorrow with my counselor and how I would unleash all of the proverbial rubbish onto her, let her be the victim of my brutal backlash, afterall, isn’t that what she gets paid to do? But no, that isn’t fair.
The last time I spoke with her she told me that I need to be more firm when I feel as though my needs aren’t being fulfilled and I’ve been chewing on this thought ever since. She makes it sound so easy, even after I voiced my concerns about whether or not it would all sound mean once I let it out. She says there’s a tactful way for everything to be said but what she chose not to hear me say was that once I have reached my breaking point, tact goes right out the window.
There are times when I don’t care who I hurt with my words, I just need to release them. I feel them tumble over and around each other in my head for hours, days, weeks, months, sometimes even years, before they explode from inside me onto some poor, undeserving soul’s ears.
I try to turn to my writing and it helps for a period of time, until the next episode. And that’s what it is really- a neverending cycle of sitcoms in which I am the protagonist, made out to look like the antagonist. I swear I’m not though. It’s not as though I want to feel these things, this way. I would love to still believe in fairy tales and happy endings and pots of gold on the other side of the rainbow, but I’m just always far too busy battling my demons to find these magical things.