washwords

From the windows of the car, the slush and rain reflects gray back to me, to the world and back again. I have behaved so poorly. Outrageously, even my therapist agrees. “Why are feelings so important?” she asks me. What else is, I wonder.

I try to stamp down, shut out the pervasive green sea-monster that rises and grows inside me. I try to see it for what it is, a monster, a demon, an addiction – like heroin, she says, that I must resist, that I must quit cold turkey. But something about it is soft and soothing, Muppet-like and reminiscent of girlhood rainy days warmed by books and cozy lights.

So maybe I shouldn’t think of it as a green monster, this omnipotent jealosy, this seething rage. I picture thunderstorms, hurricane me as a colleague once called me after a short rage-filled elevator ride with me. I picture demons, heroin, murderers, poison, venom, steely jagged hurts.

I don’t do it to punish myself. That’s not where the weakness lies. I do it in the hopes of jolting, shaking myself into submission with the horror that these are things my heart contains.

I do it so I can stop. Stop lashing out at the ones I love. Stop judging, presuming the worse, filling with hate and with fear. Stop sabotaging, willfully breaking and twisting the most important and precious of bonds. I do it to stop hurting, hating, spinning, twisting, aching. I do it to stop, to turn off the engines, shut off the motor, curtail spinning wheels, retract all moving parts back into their shell.

I picture the horrors of my heart over and over, in more fantastic and terrifying ways all just to stop moving, clear a path, and try to find the still, calm, deeper me. I do it because I am curious — behind all this swirling, spinning fury, what will I find? I’m afraid to say it outloud but I’m hopeful there’s a stiller stronger loving me in there, a girl I’m sure I once knew.