a note on screaming

screaming, from the gut, primally, is very theraputic. and ranting about just how horrible and pessimistic everything is, well thats pretty theraputic too. oh yes, and breaking things. one of my very favorite therapies that i havent indulged in yet.

but being the nicely self-contained person that i am, its not often if ever i let these sorts of things out to or in front of other people. mostly my own hang up involving trust, self-conciousness, etc, and partially a deep seeded belief that other people dont want to hear this shit.

its very uncomfortable to watch someone fall apart. then theres the tendency to want to calm them and be all optimistic and all that shit, to make it stop and go away asap. while i often wish somewhere in my isolationist soul that someone would simply hold me, i really want to just let it pour out, wallow in it.

and my strong facade, and oh what a facade it is, is deeply offended at the idea of there being witnesses when my deep-running flaws show themselves, at how broken i am. i know i really am crazy, that there is something truly wrong with me, and a few of those close to me are aware of these vital flaws, but i still prefer most people continue assuming its just an odd little joke in that eccentric person they know.

anyway, hence the post on screaming. instead of finding some poor soul to subject to my breakdown, i sat holed up in my apartment and let it all out. i dont really think that post is meant for anyone to read so much as i needed to write it. otherwise those thoughts just keep spinning around my brain, over and over. theyre still there, but not nearly as strong. its like the occaisional journal entry where i scrawl out every goddamn thing that is wrong with me, how terrible and awful and sad and pathetic the things i am and do are. the words lock the power of the ideas someplace else, my mind feels it can let go of it if theyre being kept safely on a page.

so vent a little, and then escape into some other world for a while. i fear drinking sometimes for that - it could lead down a burly path - and have instead turned again to my old, and cheaper, habit of reading. hence the other post. i think that book is the closest ive ever come to a bodice ripper, and it was fabulous. off to goodwill shortly to see what else i can find for fifty cents that will turn my attention away. without enough money to drink extensively, and fear of becoming an alcoholic like my lovely sister, i foresee many hours with my nose tucked into a book. ill pretend im 12 again.