A Bit Of My Soul

Just got back from the gym. Almost no one was there this morning at 5:00, no doubt due to the Pats game last night. I found out the Pats lost. I also found out I don't care.

I had the most amazing experience last night. Someone held me for fifteen minutes and just let me cry and cry. And cry. And didn't tell me I had to stop, or what I was doing wrong, or what was making me sad, because they didn't know and they knew they didn't know. It seems like that's never happened before in my life, being held that long. I'm sure it has, many times, just probably during periods when my memory couldn't retain it. I'm sure Bekah's held me while I cried. I just try to block out that whole section of my life because I feel so guilty about how I treated her, even though I was too sick to do anything differently.

But someone last night actually did fill a little bit of the hole in my soul, a little tiny bit. I didn't think it possible, but it was.

I get attacked by the sadness and uncontrollable crying at the most random times now. Eating breakfast. Updating the church bulletin. Getting my mail. Playing my horse game on the computer. Lying in bed at night. In the middle of dinner with friends. Especially in the middle of dinner with friends. It's so hard for me to know when I have to choke it down and stuff it in and pretend it isn't happening, and when it's okay to let it out and let other people find out. There's this rule burned into my head that I cannot be sad around most people. A couple, yes, but not most. They won't have me back if I'm sad. They won't be my friend if I'm sad. I'll make them uncomfortable. They won't believe me. They'll think I just want attention.

I am so angry these days. In church yesterday during the second service my whole body was sprung tight with the desire to start punching myself or the nearest person, to start screaming obscenities, to run from the room and smash out the windows. The tension inside is unreal and I don't know what to do with it. Someone suggested karate or kickboxing. Perhaps they're right. A violent sport sounds very good to me right now. But the thing is, I don't want to just pretend to attack someone, I want to actually beat them up with my fists until I'm bleeding and they're bleeding and I'm exhausted and someone comes and takes me away and it all goes black.

When I lie in bed at night, knives scissor through my brain. And I'm discovering a very disturbing thing. Even three years ago I was more afraid of destruction than I am now. Most of me has gotten more tender, but some little core piece of me has simply gotten fiercer. I don't want to hold myself in. I do, and I suppose that's a difference from three years ago, but the real difference is that now if I didn't hold myself in the results would be so much worse.

What is wrong with me?

I know the answer, but it doesn't really answer anything. Today, at this moment, in the darkness of this new morning, I don't even want a normal life or husband or kids. I don't want to struggle for something that hard. I just want to stand on a street corner and watch the cars go by until one stops.