The hardest thing about feelings is living them. be able to express them. Don’t be afraid. It’s hard to even look at them. But you can shout about them – you just need to find a suitable place.
I really want to exterminate them, send them to a parallel reality, grind them into dust, shake off this dust from their feet. “Don’t worry, don’t worry, let’s drink some red!” – a friend says to me, and I am grateful to her that she stays with me at this difficult moment and does not run away from me with a grimace of disgust or boredom in response to my cry of experience.
But they, these feelings, will never annihilate, will not disintegrate into dust, will not disappear in a compressed mess under the bed, where I try to shove them, while maintaining the general appearance of my housing decent and public. They will not dissolve in a pleasant wine drinking with a friend.
“There is a fire-breathing dragon in my room, but I pretend not to notice it,” my therapist says with a smile.
“I’m not ready to look into the well of grief, no, not now,” I tell her seriously.
It is very scary to live with other feelings. With feelings of resentment, shame, hatred, fear. It is very difficult to even name them – that is, to make out and give a definition – because for this you need to peer into them, and this is completely unbearable.
I live in an apartment with XNUMX% audibility: I hear the neighbors cursing and rocking the child. And I also have a cat who is afraid of screams, so I can’t express my feelings in the way they demand, with all their unsightly wildness. But I sometimes go to visit my sister in her absence – she has a steel wall with thick walls, soundproofing like in a professional sound studio – and there I begin to feel free.
“What do I want? – captiously I ask myself in the hallway. – Shout”.
And then I am surprised to hear that I allow myself to scream: “You forgot about me!”, “I hate to be afraid!”, “You offended me!”. Etc.
Read more:
- “We are brave when we confess our feelings”
The power of screaming is especially amazing to me. I think many of us, who are limited in the sound expression of emotions by living conditions, do not even imagine what exactly and how loudly they would like to tell the world. And yet, not to anyone, but to yourself.
A floor below me lives a girl of three years old, who fell into the wrong time for her: her mother has a baby in her arms. And she screams with a completely different intonation than that baby telling her mother that he is in pain, or wet, or hungry. She screams with one goal in mind: “Me!” She screams that she exists, that she exists, and that those who are close to her should know about her existence. She screams with a special helpless intonation of frenzy: on the same note, like some birds, with desperation and with a monotonous certainty that a thousand years will pass before there is someone who will really hear her.
Sometimes I also want to shout to the world that I am, exactly me, the me that the world may not suspect, or maybe does not want to suspect. This question is very difficult to hide under the bed so that it does not crawl out and does not shine.
I think this is the main thing I want to tell the world about. Together with a three-year-old girl from the third floor, screaming so desperately and so hopelessly.