RAGE

I've recently had a little bit of a breakdown.

And by little bit....I mean, a big fricking cluster.

I am dealing with a veritable mountain of rage.

I keep trying to avoid it but....the truth is...I'm just pissed off.

This is not new.

 I have long known that I could burn the world down around me if I sat in my rage.

It is a part of me and it is powerful.

I have been afraid of using it.

Loosing it.

Looking at it.

Acknowledging it.

For fear of what will happen if I do.

But like all true things..my rage has refused to go away.

Most especially because I have refused to acknowledge it.

So I am forcing myself to sit in the grief and acknowledge the rage.

It's pretty hot in here.

After all of this....why do I still avoid some feelings?

I feel as though this rage is somewhat of my birthright.

An ugly part of my birthright but...mine even so.

My rage is a consequence of something that seems....positive.

Essential.

Necessary.

It's the residue of a coping strategy I've honed.

It is what i have leftover after I deny myself to take care of others.

When they refuse to take care of me.

It's a residue of a commitment to honor, obey, cherish that is not reciprocated.

The Expectors of my childhood got switched for Expectors of my adulthood.

I have inherited a deep, bottomless well of rage because I am a smoother.  

I am comfortable with abuse and disrespect of myself because that is familiar.

I want to get credit for all my hard work and have that mean success.

I want to seem rather than to be.

I want to give because that is all that I am worth.

My lineage is filled with smooth talking posers.

Facilitators of dysfunction.

Enablers of pretending.

Sin-eaters.

This path is my birthright.

I have got to reject it before it kills me.

This rage is a thing unto itself.

I am just not sure what to do with it.

Since my legacy is to help everyone else (except myself)-

I am habitually drawn to people who want me to 'help' them.

Help them pretend to be functioning.

Help them pretend to be honest.

Help them pretend to be enough.

In spite of their own fears that they are worthless.

I am so good at that shit.

Saving everyone around me while I die.

Why do I have such rage when I am so good at doing this?

When I've proven to myself that this is what I want?

The problem is...I've been too understanding.

Of all the reasons.

All the whys.

That it is totally ok for someone to lie or use me.

I've been diminishing.

Of myself.

And my value.

My actions tell my soul 

that it's completely ok for anyone to lash out at me, 

to hide important information from me.

To bury me in the lies of comfort.

To hand me their fears so that they can be free.

That I am supposed to stay behind in the dark,

taking care of everyone's fear

so that they can go into the light.

While I stay stuck in the company of my rage.

I've believed that by playing small,

by staying little,

by squishing myself...

I am therefore lovable

and will in consequence be loved.

I've been hell bent on keeping it together.

I want to be kind.

Most.

But I have to be kind to myself.

First.

And kindness to MYSELF looks an awful lot like rage.

Outrage.

Offense.

Snarling and protective.

Unbound.

Unlabeled.

Without a safe port.

I do not know how to do this thing.

Where I put myself and my value in it's proper place.

Not up high on a pedestal where no one can touch me.

Not down low where everyone can spit on me and walk on me as long as they say they love me.

But in a healthy, valued place.

I don't know that place.

I can't see my way to it clearly.

But I am not going back in the box

where I play it small

so someone else can feel big.

And I am not making excuses for everyone else,

waiting around for them to realize that I am worthy

so that I can believe that I am worthy.

I am going to find a way to have my own back.

To hear my own truth-

even when it makes me uncomfortable.

Or changes my circumstances.

Or my status.

Even if it means that I fail at everything I've tried to do so far in this life.

I've got to choose the hot mess.

Not the cold, logical compartmentalization.