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Feel Angry

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I have been thinking about my anger lately. I once compared it to a giant knotted ball of string. It’s all twisted up inside of me. The beginning is hidden, the ending is hidden. At first it seemed impossible to unravel.

At first it was impossible to unravel. I was impatiently pulling and only making things worse. The best way to unknot a ball of string is to be patient, deliberate, slow. You have to loosen things up and work from different angles until it starts to make sense.

Is my analogy getting too thin? I’ll stop.

I’ve been working on and thinking about my anger for a long time. I wasn’t really sure I wanted to lose it. I’m still not really sure.

But I can’t keep hanging on to it. I have to at least lessen it. I’ll probably never be truly free from it. But I can try.

I always had this idea that my life would be fair. I know that sounds childish. Life isn’t fair. We all know that.

But I thought it would be balanced. Or at least have a point.

I thought, if I had this terrible childhood, I would at least have good friends. But I don’t have good friends.

I thought, if I had bad friends, I would at least have good boyfriends. But I didn’t have good boyfriends. In fact, my relationships have been worse than my childhood.

I thought, if I had abusive boyfriends, I would at least have mental and emotional health. But I don’t have emotional health. And who can blame me with my childhood and my relationships?

And I thought, if I had a terrible childhood, bad friends, abusive boyfriends, and poor mental and emotional health, I would at least have physical health. But I don’t have that either.

I’m not saying I am ungrateful for the things I do have. Because I am not. I know I have some great things in my life. And I do appreciate them.

But it isn’t fucking fair!

I guess, I thought… I don’t know… that the universe owed me… something. Which is stupid and immature and entitled. And it makes me feel angry.

I mean, who am I to expect anything from the universe. I am insignificant to the universe. It doesn’t even know I exist. My co-workers and family hardly know I exist.

And the thing is, if I believed there was a point to it all, it might make me feel better. If I thought there was some meaning or purpose to what I have gone through. But I don’t. And it makes me feel angry.

And the more I go through therapy and work through these issues. The more I can see my parents in a sympathetic light. The more I can see what impelled me to date the men I dated. The more I understand myself and my life. And it makes me feel angry.

But none of that makes me feel better. And it also doesn’t help with this feeling I have that I deserve something good in my life. That I deserve good things and people.

And I just realized that the longer I go without good things happening, the more unsure I am that I do deserve it. And the more afraid I am that my life is always going to be like this. And it makes me feel angry.

And I am so tired of my life being what it was. I am so scared to keep making the same mistakes. I am so afraid I’m never going to learn my lesson. And it makes me feel angry.

I have cried harder than I think I have ever cried in my life while writing this. This is what I am afraid to talk about. I am afraid that this makes me a whiny, selfish entitled jerk. And maybe I am.

But it feels so good to say. So good to get it out. I just re-read this piece, immediately after typing it, for typos, and actually am now laughing. It sounds so silly and immature. But I guess admitting it will help me to get over it.


Emotional Cloud Storage

I have been thinking today about where emotions go. I think we all have seen or experienced that couple They are hot and heavy and passionate. They are “in love” and “soulmates.” (I have never had first hand experience of this but have witnessed it many times).

But then, a few weeks or months later; they split up. What happened? Maybe they weren’t really in love. But whatever intensity and passion they had was real. Where did that go?

Where does love go when it’s over? Or anger? Or sadness? Nothing lasts forever. And though I have known those last two emotions; I can feel them starting to leave.

It’s kind of like asking what happens when we die. Except we may never know where our emotions go. But we will all have a definite answer to what happens when we die. Someday.

I personally don’t believe anything happens when we die. We are just dead and gone. That thought doesn’t disturb me. I’m not afraid of it. I’ve thought about it enough to be comfortable with it.

But, for some reason, I like to think our emotions go somewhere when they leave us. I’m sure this is just me being uncharacteristically sentimental. Or maybe I am just being too literal. (Or maybe I just don’t get how emotions work).

I like to imagine all of our collective emotions are still out there somewhere. Like little pieces of our souls. Our emotions persist even when we have forgotten or outgrown them.

I like to imagine them hanging out with each other in a sort of cloud storage. (Which I do imagine as an actual, literal cloud).

I like to think my emotions have distinct personalities. Which leads me to believe that all emotions have them.

All of my emotions recognize that they once belonged to me. I am their creator. They don’t all like each other. Or me. But they can be cordial at parties if they have to be. They have genders. But the genders of my emotions are specific to me.

My anger is quiet and serious. He rarely smiles or goes out. He has some acquaintances. But they are mostly other people’s anger. He doesn’t really like being around them.

My shyness is very sweet and friendly, and surprisingly, not shy. She’s kind of the mother figure as she has been in the cloud longer than my other emotions. She has tried dating a little, but keeps going for the sadness types. And the relationships never last.

My sadness is very shy and funny. He’s tried to make friends with my anger, but my anger never laughs and he makes my sadness too insecure. So he hangs out with other people’s senses of humor. And they are all so bitter!

My emotional pain is severely morbidly obese and depressing to be around. She and my shyness are kind of friends. My pain doesn’t know why my shyness even bothers. Frankly, my shyness is just about over my pain’s attitude. But she is too nice to say so.

My fear is foreign. Nobody understands him and he is constantly frustrated by that. He’s kind of boring, honestly. So nobody bothers to try to understand him.

Possibly it is just me that feels this way and thinks these things. But I don’t really know. Does anyone else imagine their emotions this way? Are your emotions friends with each other too?


I remember right after AB and I broke up and I started getting back into journaling in a big way. I wrote this weird entry about being afraid of myself, of my desires, of my desire hurting someone. It was so raw and honest and bizarre.

Even as I was writing it I couldn’t figure out where those feeling had come from. It was like lava bubbling up from inside my core.

It’s weird how in touch I was with those feelings. Considering how out of touch I generally am with myself. In every sense of the word.

But it’s true. I am terrified of my desires. Terrified of my sexual appetite. Terrified of losing control. I feel like losing control means losing myself. That losing myself in a moment, letting go, really feeling… well, really feeling anything. Is horrifying.

That’s why I think I try to avoid foreplay, and real emotional connections, and giving in to my desires. It’s why I pride myself on my self-control. It’s why I never lose my head and let go. And it’s also very likely why sex is generally so awful for me.

It’s why I don’t let men “make love” to me. It’s why I have never had gentle, passionate sex. It’s why I’ve never had intense, intimate sex. It’s why I don’t like kissing during sex. And why I’ll freak out if someone uses the word “love” in bed with me.

I’ve always been freaked out by intimacy. Fucking is safer. Fucking won’t hurt my feelings. I’ve never let someone get close to me.

My pleasure is scary. It feels like some vast, deep quarry. A place I rarely ever even think about, let alone venture into.

Quarries are the scariest thing I can think of. They scare the shit out of me. They are so dark and deep. Full of who knows what creatures. I think about heavy machinery rusting and rotting at the bottom. Giant underwater scaffolds covered in algae. Green tendrils of it waving in the darkness. And I am horrified by it.

Despite all that, I do very much enjoy sex. I have orgasms. Both with myself and with others. But I rarely feel completely satisfied. I always, always feel something is missing. Something I am too afraid to look for.

Sexy times

I can’t stop thinking about this concept of being afraid of sex and sexuality. I think I am afraid of it. I mean, I know I am. I am afraid of my desires. I’m afraid of what it means to be intimate. I’m afraid of being made ridiculous by being vulnerable. I’m afraid of my desire being outside myself.

I feel like I am housing this desire inside me. It’s like a dam holding back a flood. Once I let it out I may never get it all back in again. If I even open it up a little, it will all rush out into the world.

And that would be bad somehow. Both for myself and for the world. Or, more realistically, for whomever I let it out for. What if it is a flood that drowns someone? What if my desire overwhelms or scares someone away?

Can I take that much rejection? Once it’s outside myself, will I even be me anymore? Does this flood make up an integral part of my being? But, how much can I ever love someone while keeping it inside myself. How is my body even containing something so big? I feel like the pressure of keeping it in has forced it into this concentrated energy.

Can someone else ever truly know and love me if they don’t know that part of me? What am I afraid of anyway? Being vulnerable? Being ridiculous? Yes. But I also think I’m afraid I’m just not sexy or attractive or good in bed. If I don’t try then it doesn’t matter, I’m not invested.But if I am genuinely trying, if I am making an effort to be sexy, and I fail… Then I am just not sexy. I already don’t think I am. But, outside rejection might be harder to handle. There’s all this pent up sexuality inside me. And I’m afraid to let it out. I’m afraid to be vulnerable. And that makes me bullshit.

Still afraid of the dark…

My therapist seems to think that my fear of monsters and of the dark is actually a metaphor for something else. She says my fear of monsters is actually a sense of dread of a non-specific event.

There are real life monsters. There are people that do bad things. I have had a lot of monsters in my life. There is nothing wrong with being afraid of bad people. Even the ones from my past that are no longer in my life. And it is natural to fear encountering monsters in my future. especially since some of the monsters from my past are still in my life. And it is pretty natural to worry that a past full of monsters will mean a future full of them too.

She also thinks that my fear of the dark is based on negative experiences that happened in the dark. Both in the literal dark and the figurative dark. Bad things do tend to happen in the dark. It makes you feel alone and invisible, no matter where you are or what time of day. Sometimes the most isolating experiences are when you are surrounded by others.

Most violence occurs at night. Most abuse occurs at night. Most sexual abuse, especially as a child, occurs at night. The dark is a good cover. It offers protection for monsters. And it is scary for people who have previously suffered alone and in the dark. Not being able to see someone. Being vulnerable alone, at night while asleep.

These are actually fully logical fears.