I'd say it comes out of nowhere. But I don't think that's true. I think it lurks and broods, breeds and festers, biding its time, waiting like an poisonous shadow, a giant spider, a vicious blackness.
And then it stirs. It boils. It seethes. It explodes. Anger. Vitriol. Violence. Rage. I want to scream, shout, swear. I shake with the containing of it. I feel the ice burn of the tears behind my eyelids. My fists clench with the effort. All I want is to hurt. To smash the china, to hear the shriek as it hits the stone floors. To hurt myself. To dig my fingernails in. To force my hands through glass.
I leave. I walk away lest the girls see me like this. I hide. And then the tears come. Shaking, heaving, retching. I hate myself. I hate feeling like this. I quake as the storm passes, subsides and calms.
And I am left trembling. Hungover and afraid. For days I live in hidden fear. If you saw me, you would not know, but inside I am subdued. I am anxious. I worry about the tiniest things. I cry easily, silently, hurting my ribs with the strain of holding in the noise, because I am still ashamed. I am afraid to go out, to put myself out there, to write or think or say anything. I do not want to be touched.
And then it is gone. And I am back.
And I am back. I really am. But I am frightened. This happened once, about six months ago, and I had never felt anything like it before, and I did not control it. I screamed and swore and terrified myself and my family. But it passed, and I wept, and I put it down to stress and unhappiness and exhaustion. And then, last week, it was back. Not once, but twice. Each episode lasting less than fifteen minutes, but leaving me shaken for days after. And I am not stressed, and I am not unhappy, and I have no reason to be as exhausted as I feel.
So I am afraid. What is it? Why do I react like this when I do not even know what I am reacting to? I am not an angry person. I do not hate, I do not hurt. I do not want to be someone who hurts. Or hates. I want to be as I seem, as I try to convince myself that I am. As someone whose emotions are under control. Who is in control. Who feels without being seen to feel.
So I move on. I carry on. I bury the fear. And I write this post, so that I can look the rage in the face, stare it down, show it that its power has passed. So that I can prove to myself that I will not be judged for feeling like this. So that I can admit that I have felt this and I have moved on.
And in moving on, I hope. I hope that this time, it really has passed. That it will not be back. That I will be that person.
And that I will never have to write another post like this again.
Book Review: The Outsider by Emily Organ
16 hours ago