It’s too late at night to scream.

Do you ever listen to “This American Life” on NPR? I do. And sometimes they’ll start an episode by saying that the episode contains “unbeeped” curse words and if the listener wants a “beeped” version they can find it at their website. Well, my friends, this blog post contains several “unbeeped” curse words and if you want a “beeped” version you’re shit out of luck. Sorry.

I don’t want a response or sympathy. I don’t even want anyone to read this, really. But I have to write it. Because some fucked up place inside me doesn’t like holding shit in. Never have. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I have been told I wear my heart on my sleeve. And it’s so goddamn true.

Why, oh, why, is there this thing inside me that needs to scream and shout and rage? I need to see a therapist but good luck with that. Maybe, if I was in therapy, all the screaming voices inside me that tell me to word vomit all that I’m feeling would shut up.

The thing is, I’m so angry and hurt and just fucked up. Being alone for long periods of time is not good for me right now. My overthinking brain starts examining and re-examining the past, present, and potential future. The past makes me angry, and so hurt. The present leaves me confused and exhausted. The future is just a blank. I used to be anxious about the future and, then, as a plan formed for me, I was excited about it. Now? I don’t know. Because I no longer have any idea what my future holds. And, to be honest, that may be the most comforting thought I have these days.

I like to make collage art with shit on it that I’m feeling to put up on my bedroom walls and help me process my feelings. A few weeks ago I made a sign that simply says “What Do YOU Want?” It’s not pretty like the collage art. It’s just a small piece of white poster board with black sharpie letters and the word “you” outlined in red with a red box drawn around it. I put it on the wall directly across from my bed so I look at it A LOT. It’s striking in its contrast to the rest of the art around it.

I’ve been asking myself that question for about a year and a half. Ever since Nick left me, I’ve been trying to figure out what I want. Bits and pieces of myself, the girl I lost because I changed myself to suit my marriage, keep coming back to me. And when those bits reemerge, it hits like a fucking iceberg and sinks me into the icy depths all over again. But in a good way. Because I mean to drown the bitch I became for the sake of my marriage. Fuck her.

I’ve seen this meme a bunch of times that says something along the lines of “finding yourself isn’t a thing, you’re not a $10 bill”. Fuck that meme. Finding myself is exactly how I would describe what I’ve been going through. When I was a kid, apparently I would strip off all my clothes and run into the backyard completely naked. My mom would follow the trail of clothes until she found me gleefully naked running in the grass. She even took a picture of me around 4 years old naked as a bird outside with nothing but a straw hat on. I have always felt very weird about that picture. But I digress. I brought that fun tidbit up to say that following a trail of clothes to find a naked version of me is exactly what it feels like I’ve been doing this last year and a half. I was this “person” not even fully formed, being only 19, and I went and got married and slowly started packing her away and silencing her voice. And, now, I’m finding all those things I packed away again. But it’s taking time. Because I forgot who I was.

And there’s this other THING. And I’m so fucking pissed off about it. And my tongue is tied and I can’t talk about it. BUT I WANT TO AND I NEED TO AND I DON’T KNOW HOW TO OR WHO I CAN TRUST or even who would fucking care… Because that has been the main lesson of my life. No one cares. No one wants to hear about it. Intellectually, I know people “care” but knowing and feeling are two different genres, baby. And if I’m going off experience, I “know” that most people don’t give 2 goddamns about me or what I’ve been through. So I have to keep the THING to myself. And it makes me want to fucking break things. It makes me want to never speak to another living soul again. It makes me…. Egh! And then I write blog posts like these because I don’t know what to do with this thing sitting on my chest.

So fuck. I don’t know anymore. It’s nearly 3 a.m. and I’m doing homework and f e e l i n g. I really fucking hate feelings sometimes. I would love to be one of those people who just goes and deals with their bad feelings quietly. But I don’t know how to do that. I deal with my feelings by writing poetry and personal essays, writing music, creating art, and screaming until I’m hoarse. And it’s too late at night to scream.

If you read this, don’t worry about me, my loves. I am fine. I’m just a dramatic whore who needs to scream on the internet sometimes. I’m an attention seeking bimbo who needs everyone to read my dramatic, swear-filled, terribly written prose in order to exorcize her demons. Demons, be gone, in the name of Jesus! Poof. I’m healed.

Be well. Put this all out of your pretty minds. Get yourself a treat today. You deserve it. I’m gonna go do some emo girl shit. Kiss kiss.

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