In desperate need of trauma

January 29, 2012
I can’t cry. Nonstop emotional suppression and self hatred have somehow rewired the mechanism in my brain meant for unreasonable fits of rage and discontent. No matter how dismal the situation I can never reach the climax phase of a breakdown; whenever true hysteria starts to manifest itself it is immediately strangled in the crib. Not since the fourth grade has a real tantrum gathered enough momentum to evade my own subconscious stigma.
But now I realize this is completely unhealthy, at random times my eyes will leak water just to get rid of the tears that should have been shed. The pent up tears obviously need somewhere to go and my body is having a hard time metabolizing all of them. But when the moment comes when I’ve lost something I truly care about or need to express that my sorrow is genuine to myself or others the tears refuse to appear. I feel as if I’ve created my own chastity belt from fear of ridicule, but now that I’m confident to eject these purest thoughts they are no longer there. The horrible truth is that if I don’t start screaming and crying soon I’ll become incredibly depressed. At that point I won’t have anything to do about it.
I imagine if a close friend or family member were to die I could pull myself together just enough to break down. But I know even then it would be forced, just a show my body puts on so it wouldn’t look strange not shedding a tear at the funeral. I need something to be really pissed at to my core, something that will absolutely eviscerate my heart and let me reach that orgasmic melancholy I’ve strived for for so long. Without that release everything I write will sound like bullshit, just more of the same words arranged in a pretty order like I write for English papers.
When I read the biographies of authors I envy their misery. If I were as emotionally unsound as Poe or if I had some great tragedy or illness maybe I would know enough of the extremes a soul can go to that I could write something actually intriguing. The fact is my soul is out of exercise; my loving parents, secure financial situation, and almost shockingly sane mindset aren’t giving me enough to hate. And without being taken to the extreme opposite how can I really know what love is? How could I possibly appreciate the life ahead of me without a dark abyss right below me to remind me of how far away from that state I could get?
I want scars, I want deepset psychological issues that take a lifetime of self exploration to get around, I want animalistic rage that crushes everything in its path and defies all reason, I want pulled out hair and holes punched in my walls, I want blood on my knuckles and bruises covering my face, I want to know what tragedy is. Because at this point my soul is no more experienced than that of a housecat who is provided every meal in his life, the only other beings he knows of are seemingly all powerful giants who can manipulate objects in ways he can’t imagine. I sit there content on the rug purring in front of a fireplace while they discuss their real problems and tribulations. The only purpose I serve is for them to stroke and message my soft back relieving their own stresses.





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