When I was a freshman in college, I went to the hometown of a friend to hang out with his local friends and smash old televisions with baseball bats. A great time was had by all, and as I was smashing a rotary telephone with the bat, I heard one of the guys say "That's one angry girl".
I guess you could say I've always had anger problems. That little story up there? One of my proudest and finest moments.
Why? Because I WAS an angry girl. Furious! Full of rage! Always have been. You'd never know it, I've never thrown a punch in my life, I'd rather off myself than harm a child or animal, I can't even yell because of my shredded vocal chords. To look at me, you'd never know the anger that is at a constant simmer inside me. I rarely talk about it, even to my shrink, which strikes me as a little odd, I mean, I talk about my depression all the time, hell I never shut up about being crazy, but I don't talk about my anger. Maybe that's why it has manifested itself in the way it has.
I've always been a self-abuser. I've got eating disorders. I'm a cutter. I'm a boozer. I hurt myself when I am angry, or sad, or confused, instead of lashing out, I lash in. It's always been like that. I've always been one angry girl. And I've always punished myself, and no one else.
But what to do now? I don't drink anymore, I haven't cut in years, my eating disorders are on a somewhat even keel, things are good in the self-injury department. So what the hell do I do with all this anger? I'm on my fistfuls of meds that keep me from harming myself, keep my logic in control, keep my emotions in check, but none of those lovely little pills does a damn thing to make the anger go away.
I'm one angry girl, and I have no outlet anymore. I can't even sing, which sounds silly, but I used to get a lot of frustration out through singing. Nope, wrecked that, can't use that outlet anymore. Can't cut, I'm covered in enough scars already, and one of my meds dulls my compulsions, so common sense can stop me before i reach for a blade. Can't purge, it bloats my face. Can't starve, it gives me acid reflux. Can't drink, they'll send me back to rehab. Nope, all my outlets are gone. Not that they were healthy outlets by any stretch of the imagination, but they were MY coping skills. What the hell do I do now?
"Take a self-defense class!" "Punch a pillow!" "Talk it out!" "Write it out!" Well I can't afford a self-defense class, and punching a pillow is pretty effing unsatisfying. Talking leads to embarrassment and crying, which makes me even angrier, and writing it out? I guess I'm trying that out right now. It's okay. I'd much rather be smashing all my plates or pulverizing my coffee table with a baseball bat. But we can't always get what we want, as a wise man once said.
The drag about having a public blog that everyone knows is "you" from your Facebook friends to your dad to your neighbors, is that I can't say mean and hurtful things without consequence. Not that I want to say mean and hurtful things, but man, sometimes I'd love to scream into the wind and have the words carried away into nothingness, without repercussions, and the closest I can get to that is writing, and writing, as Jen says in The Dark Crystal, is "words that stay."
My words stay, and that's a responsibility. Just like cleaning up the debris after those 18 year old kids smashed the shit out of old electronics back in 1995, we have a responsibility to clean up the mess we make with our words. And I can't handle that responsibility, so I keep my big, stupid, cowardly mouth shut, and my finger always hovering over the "delete" key. I can't scream, I can't hurt – myself or others, I can only write, and censor, and censor, and censor, and goddammit, sometimes that just isn't satisfying enough.
So I seethe. And I write on Facebook that I want to smash my apartment to pieces with a baseball bat, and my old friend from college reminds me of the day I was confirmed as an "angry girl" and I'm PROUD of that, and we have a nostalgic laugh and the rage fades for a little while, until the next wave hits. And around and around we go.
I'm one angry girl. It's just who I am.