The Unkindest Cut

I have nowhere to direct the ever-present anger. I bite down on it, clench it in my teeth until my head aches, my neck aches, my whole body aches from the strain. I can't seem to find relief from it, nor can I release it, let loose the flood, pour it forth in a stream of vituperative, toxic words until I'm spent.

I must consider how I speak to my son, sweet child, little boy who trembles when he approaches me as I clean, muttering to myself, he trembles when he walks into the room and in his small-boy voice says, quavering, "Mommy? Mommy, I love you..." huddled in on himself and ready to fly if I move too quickly toward him. I've never struck him, never lashed out at him in anger...but he knows it is not safe...and he knows he needs to tell me...sweet boy...he loves me and doesn't understand.

I cannot let the angry words slip out into his world, so I chew on them, swallow the bitterness, and try to turn it into sweet smiles, cuddles, hugs, try to buffer him from it all.

I cannot speak to the people in my life - they have made their feelings plain, they don't want to hear it any more, they are bored with it, tired of it, can't bring themselves to care, to offer support let along help craft a solution.

So.

So, so, so.

What is the Angel to do?

A few days ago, I found myself staring at a knife, thinking about slicing, about pain and blood and release. I can see it, feel it, in my mind - just a small cut, tiny, it wouldn't have to be visible, and if anyone saw it I could blame the cat's claws, her startled jump at some noise or motion, it's happened before and I almost always have a scabbed over scratch or fine crimson line on some portion of my anatomy.

Anatomy.

I'm well schooled in anatomy. I could cut just the right places, feel the fiery burn shiver along its course, a slender tracery of the anger marking me, of the scarlet web encircling my psyche, holding me in, down, apart. I could make patterns, designs, a horrible sort of artwork out of it. Who would notice? I could hide it for days, months, years if I wanted to, always careful with my secret until the work is done.

I could.

I don't. I won't.

But I want to.

Oh, how I want to.

The unkindest cut...perhaps...is the one I haven't made.

How Did It Come to This?

Sometimes I get so angry...and I am lost inside it, this relentless rage that simmers, bubbles, erupts...and I feel defeated, remembering how I used to be, so gentle, so compassionate, so kind...but now, I am nothing but rage contained in a burnt-sugar crust, looking solid but belying the heat beneath, so ready to burst forth at the slightest touch.

I want to scream at my husband "Don't fucking touch me, not now, not ever, don't you fucking dare. Don't breathe near me, you stink like rotting flesh. Don't look at me. Don't speak to me, because the sound of your voice makes me want to stab myself in the ear with a chopstick. Don't try to make excuses for why you failed, yet again, to follow through with your promises (direct or implied) and left me holding the bag, left me changing plans at the last minute, left me doing without because you just. Don't. Give. A. Damn."

I want to kill him, I'm so full of frothing hatred. I want to strangle him, choke the life out of him, make him feel what he's done to my spirit. I want to stab him, watch him bleed, feel the warm, stickiness on my hands, smell the hot copper of it. I want to poison him, to watch him twitch, convulse, his face a rictus of pain and horror.

I want to hurt him, torture his mind, kick him in the psyche until he's nothing more than a quivering husk, huddled in the corner, crying out "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." until I believe him or grow weary of his mewling and end our combined misery with a bullet to his brain.

How does love turn into this?

How does a loving, gentle, compassionate, caring, kind, decent woman become the kind of person who has these thoughts? How did I grow so very angry...where did it come from? And what do I do about it? I can't act...and even the thoughts make me ill...but I can't seem to stop myself fantasizing...maybe...what if...?

Barely a Flutter

The Angel hasn't flown, dears - she has been...away...

It's bumpy, and up and down, and sometimes more than I can bear to turn on the computer, keep up with all of the marvelous blogs in the world, keep hoping for a better day, try not to complain, complain, complain, and see to the care and feeding of my family.

Sometimes I am hot, or cold, or both, and not certain of myself or the world around me, loosely anchored, loosely affiliated with reality.

When the odd days, the bumpy days, the unutterably sad day come, I am afraid I don't have much to say here. In other places, I am present every day, if only with a photograph, a cartoon, someone else's humor, but here in my most deeply honest space? Silence.

I've been trying to convince myself that I am not trying to kill myself with my lifestyle (because food is so much better than a gun, a blade, a handful of pills - people are so much more sympathetic when it's sickness that takes one, and why is that?)(even smokers with lung cancer don't get an "I told you so").

Today, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. To be honest, I try not to look ever, but sometimes I can manage it and not flinch. Today? Couldn't even look up. Lucky I can do my hair in the dark and don't wear makeup - I could live entirely without reflective surfaces and be just...er...well, not fine, but...fine.

I'm going out into the rain, perhaps to be washed a little clean of this sticky, pernicious funk.