My least favourite part of writing is when I sit down to the sleeping computer and I can see my reflection in it. The more depressed I get, the harder it gets to look at myself.
I told my counsellor today that I had an image of reaching into the computer and shredding every scrap of evidence of my online presence because it’s crap.
It’s all crap right now, every bit of my life and while the little bit of my brain that I always seem to retain tells me that it’s the depression talking the rest of me mostly wants to be left alone to be sad because when people talk to me of late it always seems to lead to thoughts of me kicking them in the legs. Or something. Because I am angry.
I’d take credit for being insightful but it was my therapist who pointed it out. I like to use other words. Like “irritated”. And “testy”. I’m not at a place where I feel comfortable acknowledging that thing that terrifies me so much.
I’ve written about my issues with anger before. It’s like there’s this massive wall. I have no idea what it’s constructed of but it feels impenetrable. Whenever I feel anger, it’s there, surrounding it, locking it down. Occasionally, the wall runs late and then I explode and react in a disproportionate fashion which then leads to days of self-recriminations and ruminations and a renewed resolve to never lose my temper again.
So the exhortation to take myself off to the woods or somewhere and let go with the screaming and the punching and the wailing and whatever else comes up was met with an internally raised eyebrow and no small amount of squirming; I’m not a demonstrative or dramatic person and this seems like both of those things to the nth degree.
And yet, I can’t stop thinking about it. Or being angry. I’m angry about quite a few things, as it happens. Not all of the anger is logical; I find that an annoying thing about anger. I tell myself I have no right to be angry but that doesn’t seem to matter.
I can write about the anger. I know where it lives intellectually. I can’t seem to express it beyond the occasional snide comment. I’m terrified to try. I’m scared to even attempt to feel it, to let go that much. So much for “lean in”.
Although I sometimes imagine a movie-montage scene where I hit things and run screaming through forests and beat up the edge of the ocean before collapsing in an exhausted and blissfully empty heap. It’s a nice image that causes me to physically contract when I start to imagine putting it into actuality.
It’s weird how I feel compelled to do what’s not in my best interest.
I used to vomit out some of the anger. I used to cut. I’m trying very hard to not do those things anymore. But they served a function and I didn’t work hard enough on creating replacement behaviours. Now new anger suffers the same fate as the old: repression.
I should’ve tried harder with the knitting, I suppose.
The thought of trying to get the anger out fills me with terror, embarrassment, and shame. Unfortunately, if I don’t get the anger out, it will get infinitely harder to escape from this bout of depression.
Or so they tell me.
It’s a bit of a pickle.