There are some moments when I just need to vent. I’m not talking about the kind of venting you’ll do with a friend. Complaining about trivial things. First world problems.
No, I’m talking about a different kind of venting. It’s toxic. It’s water boiling over. It’s one of those things that will blister flesh and leave nothing behind but smoldering blackness.
That’s the kind of anger
I’m feeling in this moment.
It’s in these moments that I turn up the volume to full blast and pound out songs that have a similar angry feel to them. Those pounding baselines. The screams of nothingness.
This is that kind of moment.
I’m not entirely sure what I’m angry about. But deep down, I know I’m just angry with myself.
It’s not so much that my life is shit, though it is. And it’s not so much that I’m trapped in the hell that is my past, though I am.
It’s because I feel like I’m failing.
All the time.
My temper flares for no apparent reason and suddenly, I’m fuming.
It’s in moments like this, with the music finally blaring in my ears so loud that it drowns out everything else, including the demons of my past that haunt me, that I’m finally able to purge a little bit of it.
My fingers will pound away at the keys, keeping with the pounding beat of the music, and I won’t stop until the music comes to it’s final notes.
Hell, I’ll put
that shit on repeat
if I have to.
These songs will help me focus my thoughts and before long, the pages are smoking with the rage pouring out of my fingers.
This is what it means to write furiously.
This is what it means when you’re so fucking lost you can’t do anything but channel your feelings through your fingertips and into something tangible. Into something creative.
Instead of using that anger to lash out at someone.
Instead of resorting to violence. Or cutting someone down because it’ll make you feel better.
It’s in moments like this that I’m most reminded of how similar I am to my abuser. And that’s a terrifying thought.
He didn’t have a creative bone in his body. And his anger meter was always boiling over, especially when alcohol or drugs were added in.
I was his outlet.
Just the mere thought that anger like that runs through my veins too, isn’t something that sits well with me. I’d rather wallow in despair than feel like I’m going to explode like nuclear bomb.
But I keep my cool for as long as I possibly can. And then my anger turns into something new.
It’s damn powerful.
You can be sure it’s plenty deep.
And it’s fucking beautiful.
drops the mic
© Sarah Doughty