Sense
Who knew repeatedly kicking someone
further into the ground could be such a fickle process.
It's almost as though the goal is to make someone kick their own selves.
I wonder how much rage life has to use so many people as its punching bag.
I am so ill with regretting the belief that I had the ability to stop any of it.
I dread the feeling of helplessness.
They say that I'm handling all of this so well,
though I'm not so sure that I would call what I've been doing,
"Handling".
Perhaps I "handle" it as if I had a graceful glass vase.
Walking as though there were eggshells beneath my feet,
though I knew that I was breaking all of them.
In that graceful vase,
I placed all of the pain that I don't know how to manage.
All of the angst, anger, and sadness that I couldn't be rid of by myself.
I'm meant to feel all of these things and let them go,
but the fear that I simply can't has shaken me to my core and incited a panic.
I've denied myself the ability to make mistakes,
feel things that one wouldn't mention in a casual conversation.
As I attempt to revert back to what allowing them in,
if I ever had before,
I realize that I have no clue where to start.
I keep telling myself that it's all okay, and that all I'm feeling is normal.
But I'm nowhere near normal,
so why am I trying to normalize myself like this?
It's almost a degrading habit to myself.
I would always repress the parts of myself that I didn't like,
the feelings that seemed too raw.
I permitted them to plague my gray matter
to the point that I wished away my mind and all of the thoughts that came with it.
I deemed my sadness unnecessary and weak, which it is,
but this is apparently how I should deal with it.
I cannot ask who people are to give me
my coping mechanisms when they can barely function themselves,
because I have no other methods in my arsenal.
I also have no clue where all of the pain is coming from in the first place.
I know that not everyone is meant to understand what I'm feeling,
but I don't have the slightest inkiling as to what I'm feeling either.
If I were to guess,
I'd bet money on heaps of pain slowly piling up
like ice cream in a cone that doesn't solve the problem of overheating.
I don't particularly care is the rest of me makes sense,
but I would just like my mind to make sense.
It'd be great if all of my thoughts could be sorted into a filing cabinet in the corner,
with all of my emotions in mason jars atop a night table,
to maybe take some sips from them at the end of a hard day.
But no, this is reality,
where I have no such filing cabinet,
and there's broken glass all over the floor along with the emotions that it should hold.
I hate this overwhelming helplessness,
and I miss things making sense.
Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace.