sixty-eight: inspiration

really the thing i kept coming back to (despite not wanting to) was how my therapist used this word in relation to me this week. it has made me squirm all week, because i’m just not, full stop, that’s ridiculous. that said…because it was her that said it, because i love and trust her words and integrity, because i know she meant it and said it with such love and respect…i can’t ignore it entirely and i hate that. i’m curious but also sort of mad that she said it, because i don’t want to know why, but i also sort of do, because it’s so outlandish a claim. it feels too huge a word to apply to me when i’ve done nothing to deserve it.

plus it is making shame noisy and then i get sucked in to that whole shame spiral, because why can’t i just take a compliment already, ffs she was just being lovely. but ugh, it’s so out there, and weird and extreme. and i don’t want that pressure, i don’t want to be an inspiration and i’m just not.

(also, please please don’t anyone comment about your thoughts on my being this word. i’m not digging for compliments, i honestly feel so so squirrelly about it, i’m just hoping by writing it down i’ll get it out of my head.)

sixty-seven: hate

i feel immobilized by this one. i’ve started writing this entry and i just can’t seem to stop, but it’s really a big scary stream of consciousness so i need to. i’m going to leave it right now…please believe i’ll be back.

Hate

A couple of nights ago, I wanted to destroy everyone and everything near me. I was so so full of hate, I just wanted it out of my body. I was imagining hurting my poor little kitten that I love (I didn’t); I wanted to really really hurt him, release all of my anger and hate, and kill him, this little, adorable, sweet and oh so naughty kitten. My thoughts were violent and uncontrollable and just so so not okay. There was no interacting with other parts of myself, there was only this unbearable hatred eating me up. I wanted to rage, I wanted to scream and hit things, and hurt people. I really, really wanted to hurt people. I wanted to hurt myself most of all. I wanted to hurt every single good person in my life, I wanted to scare them all away, and then I wanted to punish myself. The feeling that I always have is that of taking a knife and slicing it, right down my body…of taking my hands and removing all of the soft squishy guts, everything that makes me feel weak. I wanted to remove every single soft bit on my body, and I didn’t want to do it painlessly, I wanted to feel the sharp tang of the knife, I wanted to feel the sweet release of all of this weakness being removed from me. I wanted to feel relieved and like I could breathe again afterwards, hardened and strong.

I hate myself when I’m like this. Its a terrible circle…because when I am hating, I hurt people, and shout or want to hurt innocent animals. That then makes me hate myself the moment the rage begins to subside, and I think about how awful a person I am. That then in turn tends to turn me back to rage and hating myself, and you’re stuck in this cyclical pleasure ride.

Something pc said to me, (after sticking with me through that night, no matter how awful I was), was that she wants to know this part most of all, that she was the biggest protector… And I guess she was. Because all of the hate, all of the anger, became contained. It was separated, and it was felt when it was generally safe, and it was almost all directed inwards. She kept me safe, by making me angry at myself and nobody else. She kept me small, and feeling strong, and blaming myself. And that, in its own very screwed up way, kept me safe. It kept me from acting out and being on the receiving end of retaliation. And it kept me from the unbearable grief of placing that anger where it belongs and realising that no one would listen or help.

I  really want to end this with some lovely sentence or two to summarise, but I can’t, because really it just feels like one bloody big mess in my head.