I no longer understand what my psychologist want from me. Off course it was a lot worse when I had a therapist who didn’t understand me, but it’s pretty darn frustrating not to understand your therapist either. That eternal ongoing nagging about getting intouch with my feelings. I don’t get it. I feel like getting up and walk away, that’s what I feel. I think I’ve said that a couple of times already. But it seems like she means something else. To get intouch with my feelings is obviously not what I’m thinking of. What I would like to do, what I imagine. It’s not about what’s hidden in the darkest depths of my inner self.
There has been said and written a lot about forgiving and reconciliation. Meaningless phrases about forgive, but not forget. That you have to forgive to find peace of mind. To be able to move on. That you have to forgive because that’s what you do if you’re a good person. There are many things I can ignore. Out of love. Out of laziness. Of wisdom. Because I can’t have kittens in prison. Because there comes another day tomorrow. Because it’s insignificant. Because it serves me more to let it go. Because there’s no point in running around searching for vengeance towards someone who dies all by them self, or just ruin their lives without my help. Because I don’t kick downwards. Because I simply just have a life to live, but forgive?
It’s when I consider a hammer versus an axe that I run off to the pub. It’s when I catch my self pondering about how I can find out someones where abouts without leaving traces that I’m willing to accept almost any company or interlocutors because almost anything appears innocent and nice and acceptable compared to my own brains ability to figure out methods of torture. And believe me; I’m very inventive! I lifelong studie of creative processes as well as reading forbidden books since my parents hung the key to our house in a string around my neck, has prepared me for almost anything. Before I was ten I knew how to arrange a car accident which would release me from those individuals whos dna I was made of, but hardly could be claimed to be particularly suitable nurturers. I don’t know why I never did that, but it’s a long time since I stopped imagine different accidents for them to die from. After all, I doubt I would get less pissed by experiencing even more shit. Or traumas, that is.
I believe there is a very thin line between pleasure and pain. I don’t believe the line between fantasize and realize is equally fine, but I do believe that all of those who claims they never even once have fantasized about performing ruthless, violent actions, or that they are incapable of hating someone, are lying. And those who claims they have never felt schadenfreude when somebody they would like to rip the head off, fucks up big time, are lying. This I BELIEVE! What I KNOW is that there’s no satisfaction in fantasizing about revenge, about violence. Imagening twisting a corkscrew into the eye of some asshole I despise, even if I see the picture before my eyes a thousand times, wont give me any liberation nore comfort from my inner hell. And anybody who claims they don’t understand what I’m talking about, are lying!
That is what anger issues is all about!
It’s about knitting obsessivly instead of piercing someones testicles with my knitting needles even though it has been called for. It’s about not doing what the instincts of every single cell in my gut urges me to do. It’s about bathing in my own sweat, my own tears, my own blood, my own pain whilst I torment my self with questions with no answers. Why did all this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this? But I didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t me. Everything was just coincidences. A hell of a conglomeration of the traps of life. Who we are borned to be, and what life we are borned to live, is all a matter of luck or misfortune. So where do forgiving fit into this? There are no more forgivness than there is free will. I just need to find something else to think about. Something that makes me happy. Something that gives my life meaning, and my days contents until the moment comes when I se an oppurtunity to satisfy my darker side. Like seeing my eks tread on a rusty nail, get blood poisoning and staphylococcus aureus, and be forced to amputate from the neck down. It’s all about seeing why being so bloody furious really is kicking my own butt as well as kicking somebody who are already lying face down like they did when they did what they did. And the sweetest revenge is living well. That’s when I can get in touch with my feelings and tell my psycholigist that I sincerely are breathing with my stumach and my shoulders at ease. Or maybe I’ll just stop feeling…
365 sober days 