I regret how perfectly reasonable and sensible my meltdown was. I regret not being a bigger mess when I had a perfectly good reason. I think this is why I am weirdly attracted to stories with a very damaged and dark main character. You know; broken women who drink too much, can’t keep a job, blow guys they just met. Ew. Russian Doll on Netflix and my new crush Phoebe Waller-Bridge on Amazon’s Fleabag for example. Curious.
Oh the allure of the hot, hot mess. Perhaps mine wasn’t really a breakdown? I was sad, angry and confused but maybe I was emotionally mature enough to express it? I certainly wasn’t mature in any other way. Or, am I so buttoned down that I couldn’t even crack up properly? Maybe I’m a zombie like the ones in Warm Bodies?
Photo by Pietra Schwarzler on Unsplash
In what I thought at the time were brief moments of clarity, I knew that I was a mess, and I knew that I needed help, so I got help. How perfectly sensible of me. I thought I’d hit rock bottom then but now I’m not so sure. I think I could have done better, gone deeper. I was never recruited by a cult. I don’t even think I did a proper walk of shame. I drank too much, sure, but still kept my job. In fact I got promotions and bonuses. I was coherent at all times. I used drugs but nobody noticed as far as I know. Oh, my flat mate noticed but moved out because I was too ‘much.’ Way to be supportive, Naomi. There were guys but it wasn’t on if it wasn’t on, if you know what I mean. I was so sensible.
Sigh.
If I could go back I’d make a real run at it. I’d be a hot mess. Oh, the stories I’d be able to tell if I could remember them.
I have all the stories. I lived them all. Or if not me, then someone I knew personally. But so what? I have nothing more or less than anyone else. Less self respect and more self loathing for sure.
Replace my mask back on my face and back into the real life parade. I take my mask offline, but that’s where everyone else puts one on. Fuck it. Opposite again.
i think I have a lot of pent up rage that I might have been able to expel then. It took me three years of therapy to learn how to express anger rather than say, with a smile on my face, “I’m angry” It was that weird. I thought I was expressing anger. bizarre.
We’re taught to be meek and mild mannered and turn our cheeks to the side, step aside sit down. hop to it, to the kitchen or whatever room, stay inside and stay there.
Of course I have heaps of inner rage and whatever but I don’t like expressing it. I know I’m hurt of butt fucking some nothing, totally blowing it high hell out of water, but damnit, i may be 157cm but take my wrath and rage seriously! I am not a cute little fucking ladybird!
haha,omg. It feels good to rage out like that, and have myself be taken seriously for as long as I take my anger seriously. I’m such a push over. I think that’s why i like writing there is a buffer between my immediate feels, and the chance to hold my horses before I spew forth another apocalypse out of my mouth.
My husband’s family got me kind of used to the idea of “say what you feel, and mean” because in my household there was no conflict, lots of i dunno, pent up or pressed within things.
My experience is that when women get angry they aren’t taken seriously. In my husband’s family, one sister in law, now thankfully an ex, was such a bully and physically threatened me but the family said it was just a personality clash between us. No. She is a psychopath and it just took them 10 years to see it!
What do you do when you’re angry? How do you show it, and how do you think you should?
I know how to show it now but it still terrifies me because despite what I say to the contrary, I desperately want everyone to love me.
Yeah. You think by expressing your personal feelings, they’ll stop loving you? Of course you don’t think that, but can’t help but feel it.
I did think that for a long time. Still do sometimes