Another in my series of never-be-sent therapeutic letters, this from a few weeks ago, since I wrote it I've realized that I need to work on acceptance but here goes the expressing anger exercise...
I am still struggling with anger, so much anger, and it is a strange thing to me. Like a new fisherman unsure how to wrangle slippery fish I am unable to grasp it, manipulate it, dispose of it and so I am writing yet another letter to you as I attempt to expunge this toxic ire from my system.
Complicating matters more is the fact that our family doesn't express anger very well and in a way the lever to release the negative energy has been glued, rusted, and locked shut for so long I have a damnably hard time expressing these feelings.
But I will try, and try again until I find the relief I need.
fuckyou you flaming hellbitch of a flaming sonofabitchcuntstupid stupid idiot i can't believe you how stupid and rude and insensitive and mean and stupid bitchface asshole stupid potholes in my heart, stinky rotting moldy jam in my fridge, black-brown sticky oil on my hands and bubblegum dogshit in the creases of my soles I hate what you do to me, I hate the bitter stinking den you have made in my heart and i want to roust you from your evil keep and banish you from my life, my mind, my obligations, I resent that I like you terrorize me that I give up so much of myself to your manipulative, soul sucking black hole of selfishness, all the anger I feel toward you is squared by the anger I then feel toward myself for letting those feelings burn me so!
God dammit, ****, why did you ever make me think that we could be close? Why did you and Mom ever imply that you would work on things, give me this infernal hope that leads me on, ties me down. I have to kill it, excise it, cut it lose and chase it away like some friendly fawn outside a slaughterhouse that doesn't know any better...
"I'm done" rings through my mind so often as I think of things, "I'm done with this shit," I want to walk away, I want to flee, to take up residence in some lonely, cold observation tower in Greenland or the Northern Territory, protected by distance and ice that you would not brave to harass me. I would rather spend my years alone, conversing with arctic birds and watching my breath leave me than spend time in your company.
Watching how you handle your pregnancy makes me sick, I can only guess watching you parent will be agonizing. Watching you and that manchild you call your fiance is laughable and troubling. I see our mother and father pandering to you, babying you while trying to help your "partner" mature more quickly, and it hurts me to see their lives being hijacked by this pothole you've dug in our family's path. You can drag everyone else down with you, but I'm not interested. As I've said before, I don't believe this pregnancy was any accident and I will not buy into the drama.
I see only sad things in your future, and maybe it's my mood problems but maybe it's just the path you desire to take and in that case, you are welcome to whatever pity or attention you can garner from others, but you won't get it from me. It's your choice to dilute yourself, to shirk away from your potential, to enable your worst tendencies and cultivate your insecurities.