I feel like a vessel, full to the brim. Every last thing having accumulated bit by bit, filling my being with its wholeness. Not something so lovely as fulfillment, not something so desirable.
I am full.
Every last drop of grief, pain, anger, joy, love, sadness; it fills the walls of this clay piece that is my being. The earthen barrier can only hold so much, and I am afraid that I have been cracking for quite some time.
It leaks out of me.
I cannot hold it.
I am so tired, I am so overwhelmed; all the time I sit with these feelings and memories that are screaming for release. But where do I let it go?
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The world feels so full. Every person, every experience, filling the spaces between. Even if my vessel bursts, where will all of this go? Is there any room left?
.
I feel as if I have taken too big of a bite. My mouth is so full that I cannot process, cannot even chew to make room for swallowing; for digesting (or releasing).
I wish I had someone to listen.
To hear the whole of my experiences and share with me a moment of the burden I carry. Without hurting or harming or stressing, just sitting with me for a moment and feeling the whole of this weight (and then they pass it back).
But everyone is so full.
They have no room for my grief.
Not even for a moment.
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I could talk to my therapist. She is in the business of solving problems, but I suppose what I yearn for in that experience is not necessarily to have my problems solved; just held, just for a breath.
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Maybe I will spill, a little of my burden here.
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I am so angry.
I am angry at the world, so full of pain and injustice. I am angry at myself, for my inaction, for my poor choices, for the moments I released my anger at others.
I am so angry at my father, for taking from me what should have been rightfully mine. For harming me, scarring me when he should have been my protector, my guardian, my teacher.
The things he taught me were shame and pain. He taught me to lie, and to hide, and to fear.
I used to hide from him, run from him, and even lie to myself to escape him, and I am so so angry that I ever had to learn those lessons at an age so young.
I am angry at my mother, for beating my vessel as it formed. Her violence intended to shape and form my clay; in so many ways it broke it.
I am angry at my mother for being someone I must extend understanding and grace to, in spite of my injury. That in my love, I must think of why she raised her hands and sharpened her words, that I must hold space for her in the form that she broke herself.
I am angry at my mother, that in her desperation to prove that she could make something beautiful in spite of her brokenness, that she broke me more than she will ever know.
I am angry at men, at the greedy hands of men that are so common that have harmed me and those I love. I am angry at those men for making the world a place that feels so sick, and so unsafe.
I am angry at people. At the commonness of peoples inconsideration and disregard for others. I am angry that so often, people take those things they are so full of, and allow it to hurt the world they touch.
I am angry at myself.
I am furious at myself.
For the choices I’ve made, for the people I’ve hurt, for the way I’ve harmed myself. I am angry at my inaction, at my dysfunction, at my imperfections.
What can I do with all this anger?
Where can I turn this fire?
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I am so full of grief.
I am so full of sadness.
I am so full of so many things.
And I feel so tired, of being so full.
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My mind is clouded with an ever-present fog, a misty representation of all the things I’m full of.
I can no longer think clearly.
How can I live, so full of fog, and water, and fire?
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The world, so full with all its parts, bears down on me from all sides. (Me, who is already full to bursting). The pressures of life, expectation, people, obligations, society, all swarming together to form some perfect force that I must somehow handle.
How do I do this?
(How long can I take this?)
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I am so tired
I am so disjointed
I am so lost.
Where do I go from here?
Extraordinarily Ordinary 