journal · prose

Hurricane Drunk

All of a sudden, I was possessed by a rage and despair that I could not control. I cannot remember exactly what triggered it, but the world around me had melted away until the only things that were left inside of it and my being were pain and hatred: a feeling of utter betrayal and a heartache so vast that I was certain my body could not contain it. And it could not. The tears began pouring down my cheeks in an unending torrent, at last giving lie to all the lies I had told and lived about being “fine.” I no longer had any power, and knew with every fiber of my being that I had no other choice but to run. Run, from the people who meant so well but could never understand, from the thoughts and feelings that were eating me alive from the inside out, from my own absolute lack of understanding and mastery over my own life. My concentration narrowed until I was nothing more than feet and legs, but feet and legs would not work, refused to cooperate, and there was simply too much talking, too much noise, too much selfishness surrounding me that I could not escape. And in that moment, something deep inside of me snapped. The rage had won out over the despair in the war that was taking place within me, and I became feverish, wild, insane with an overpowering desire to destroy. Only I would be the master of my fate and I was desperate to prove this fact to be undeniably true. Nobody, not a single person on this earth, could tell me any longer what I should or should not do, how I should or should not feel, where I should or should not go, and my need to prove this was gargantuan, rabid, and wholly savage. I could not run, it was true, but it did not matter, because no matter how fast or how far or how long I might have gone, there was no escaping this end result. I faded in and out of reality, and in some small part of me, what little remained of myself which had not been overtaken by this savagery knew that my behavior was deranged and preposterous, irrational and mad. This last little logical part of me watched in helplessness and horror as the rest of me set out to wreck anything and everything that sought to stand in between me and my goal: to flee from the rest of humanity and eradicate all emotion through the complete and total decimation of my surroundings. Yet still and despite this psychotic display of emotions, that small part of me knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was better than the alternative: to destroy him. To make him feel how he made me feel. To watch him suffer how he made me suffer. To tear him apart from the inside out until he realized and at last apologized for all of the atrocities he had inflicted upon me. But the truth is he was already suffering, already tearing himself apart from the inside out, making a monster of himself because he had no control over his own emotions. His own life. He was truly sick. And at last, utterly spent from the force of my own feelings and with nothing left within the vicinity to demolish, I collapsed into a heap on the living room table and let the people around me do whatever they wanted with me. I was finished. I had had enough. And in those final moments, I at last gained the clarity that I so desperately needed: I had to let it go. Whether or not I understood it. Before it thoroughly destroyed me.

I was sick, too. But I was finally ready to seek healing.

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