A Rant for Everyone Who Feels Rage.

Dear Motherfucker.

Ya you.

Why do I start off so aggressive?

Because it seems to be the only thing that gets your attention.

I’ve tried talking.

For years.

I plan it out in my head first, so I don’t offend you. I write it down. I make my points clearly and I remember to see your point of view too.

I sit on it.

I wait for a few days.

It crops up when I’m peeing, the rage. But I keep it down until I have the eloquence to share it with you in a respectful manner.

Then, after getting really clear with my intentions and needs vs my wants and emotions I try my best to get into dialogue. And it doesn’t fucking work. We start going in circles. You get triggered. I feel the rage bubble up and then, after packing it down for a few days too many, I freak the fuck out.

I’ve tried not talking too. I go to therapy. I take anti- depressents. I tell my friends. I ask for advice. I write. I do yoga. I take long baths. I get my nails done. I go for a brisk walk. I smoke dope. I find many different, creative and very expensive ways to shut the fuck up about it. Because I don’t want to be that loud mouthed bitch. Not her. God no. She’s a high mai freak. She’s not sexy or cool. I recognize that. But after a few days I get a little edgy. I’m annoyed by small and seemingly disconnected things; and then, of course, one little tiny mouse fart occurs and I tip over into rage again.

You think I’m being ridiculous. You wish you could understand.

You say I’m holding onto baggage that’s far too old.

Why aren’t I responsible for my emotional emotions?

It’s not your fault that bad things happened years ago to other people.

I try to not give a fuck

I really do.

If I’m going to be perfectly frank with you here (why the hell not hey?!) most of my mental existence consists of me trying to move forward.

 What’s wrong with me?

Why don’t I just let it go?

It would be so much easier if I could not attach this situation to all the other situations.

It’s my shit to work out.

Why can’t I speak my mind in a normal way that’s easy to hear?

But you’ve got to understand.

It’s been years.

Since the very beginning actually.

So it’s not just you that I’m mad it. It’s all of you. And I know, I know that’s annoying to hear but this is the reality we’re dealing with and it bothers me as much as it does you.

I can’t differentiate the two. The before. The now. The them. The you. They are different situations sure, but I’m left feeling the same way and so I conflate the two.

 Shut down.

Shut up.

Silenced.

Embarrassed.

Wrong.

Ashamed.

Rage.

I really don’t think I’m blaming you for all of it, but I am asking you to own your part.

That because you are who you are and I am who I am and we live where we do, there are situations that occur over and over and over again that really start to dig deep and cut up my old heart bone.

So I try, like I said to talk nicely, to package it properly, to eat it daintily, and then, when that little fucking mouse in the corner farts again- I lose my shit.

Because I’m tirrrreeeeed of it.

I’m doooooone!

Either I yell or I get cancer.

These are the options we’re dealing with here.

I’m so fucking sick of eating this maddening unequal garbage and pretending it tastes fine. It tastes like runny dog shit. I’m so fucking pissed that my options are to shut up or be a bitch. I’m so absolutely not interested in continuing on in this way so my kids have to deal with the maze of rules and mine fields. I’m so fucking goddamned angry  and if this is the most boring  statement you’ve ever heard someone yell then I’m pissed about that too; that you’re bored by my rage.

 Tactical and tonal shift:

You like kids right? You’re not a kid hater? So why are you cool with kids having to live like this? Because they do and they will and if I’m a broken record then for the love of all things holy, It’s Timmy’s fucking Christmas telethon here- help the fucking children.

How can you help us? You ask. Because I know you want to. I mean I’m going to assume that you want to or else what are we doing here?

You can help me to diffuse my rage. I feel it, hot and hysterical, like a baby freaking out and you could you see that (like a baby) it’s not my fault? It’s the actions of thousands of interactions that I’ve dealt with and my parents have dealt with and my friends have dealt with that’s making me lose my shit on you.

And you can get mad with me about that.

Because it’s affecting your quality of life too.

Obviously.

Can you see that?

That you are a part of this?

Yes, it’s history and yes, I know, you’re one of the good ones and yes, I realize you don’t experience life that way.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not happening.

So, can you trust me? Can you believe me when I say I’m angry for a goddamned good reason? Can you hear that and not try and push it away with a logic that makes my head bleed.

Can you let it enter your body and feel it too? Can you imagine what it would feel like to live in that body every day?

I’ve been trying to fix this using all the other creative possibilities and it just doesn’t seem to be working.

So even though you don’t understand, especially because you don’t understand; can you freak the fuck out with me here?

Can you freak the fuck out for me?

Because when I see you freaking the fuck out the relief I feel is like…like imagine your soul having an orgasm. It’s so powerful it makes me want to bow down and protect you and stand up and be loyal and fight for what you need too.

It heals me.

You do this motherfucker, you do this, and you won’t believe the stars that’ll start shooting out of my eyes. If I can get some help up on in here in holding my feelings and hearing my hurts, the rage will disperse and you’ll be blinded by my everlasting love.

I’ll throw a party in our honor.

I’ll drop to the earth and kiss her all over on the mouth because now she gets to start healing too. I’ll stop moving for a week. I’ll just lie down like a dummy and smile. I’ll make out with the ground you walk on.

That’s the goddamned truth.