I should be in bed right now. It’s 11:37pm and I have to be up at 7am for the gym tomorrow morning. I took a 1.5 hour nap after I got home from work and my body still feels drowsy but I’m powering through the drooping eyelids and forcing out an entry. I’m hungry for the aliveness that comes from writing under the midnight sun.
Rage is such an interesting emotion. I was ghosted in the fall of 2022 and spent the winter of 2023 stoned because my body could not handle the emotions. It was like someone drove a car through my chest and ripped out whatever aliveness I had left in me. I was a shell of a human being for several months. In the middle of that depression I sobered up for a few days and felt a rage like I had never known before. I saw myself as someone that carried themselves with dignity and respected others, and in return I was crushed like a cockroach. Kindness is an irrelevant currency in our world. People crowned their egos with the perfume of my suffering. To cope with my anger I kept smoking weed and listening to Stranded by Gojira.
I still feel that rage bubble up in me from time to time. My hormones have been flitting all over the place, I think it’s from too much collagen powder. I stopped taking it but my body is still settling itself down. I remember looking at my astrological chart and seeing that my Lilith was conjunct my MC. This means that in the public eye I’m a deeply rebellious, anti feminine female. I try to understand myself emotionally, to compartmentalize myself into something more palatable, but it feels like a futile endeavor. I remember talking to a therapist years ago about my ex’s drug problem and she explained that he lacked the ability to self soothe. Some do drugs, others go to therapy. In my case, my rage, those unpalatable emotions that sit below the surface of my being, make their way out in my writing. I can let my femininity collapse.
Aging is nice. My more punky streak is hitting the surface and getting a chance to air itself out in the sun. I used to hate my vial of ugly little emotions but I’ve learned to befriend them. My freedom is in loving and listening to myself, not suppressing my voice. It takes practice though, I’m still learning how to care for myself in the shitty moments, but I’m hitting my stride.
a soft death 