This is the type of writing where I just write one word after the other as it comes to my mind. There is no major editing, just creative, therapeutic writing associated with steroid rage and bitterness.
I’ve already noted that its like the rage is sitting in my stomach waiting to come up, but that’s not the end of it. I also feel as thought there’s a film on my skin, suffocating it. I’d describe it like a thin layer of tar all over my body holding me very tightly, refusing to let my skin breathe……
No one else can see it, they can’t see that my skin is black like tar. The tar is a mix of bitterness and lemons. At some point bitterness settled on my skin but I didn’t notice until I began to itch. That’s when the blisters came so that I scratched and tore at myself, trying to control what felt out of control. So I went to the doctor and he said, take this. I was afraid but I’d walked so far, and hungered for more than another plate of pain. I took the pills.
The pills were to wrap my body in its ropes, seize it, control it and force it to submit to a painless way of being. There I lay, bound in ropes from my neck to my feet. Many days later the ropes were loose then finally I was unbound. My body felt different. The pain wasn’t so intense that I wanted to shred off my skin, hack off my arm and leave behind anything causing my mind to bend to its painful will. My body was better, but there was still that little itch of bitterness, and something new. There was something in my belly. I could name it, but I hadn’t felt it so powerfully until now. It was small, like an egg. It moved about and formed a ball and just sat there. Odd. How odd.
I wanted help with the blisters. I wanted to heal the lesions and puss that builds when resentment, anger and ultimately bitterness has set in. I knew bitterness had changed my skin but something else all together new had infected me. I was trying to ignore it, trying to let it wear itself out like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Once he’s kicked and screamed long enough he’ll fall asleep right where he slammed his hands last. I thought the ball would wear itself out but instead it began to change shapes and grow. It began to deform my hands, my arms, my face, neck. It grew a tar-like film over all my organs.
I realized my family and friends couldn’t see the systemic film until of course they walked across eggshells too loudly and caused a roar so deep it ground to dust what was already broken shells. It was then I realized I was nothing more than an ugly monster, nothing more than a fire-breathing freak. How many times would my friends accept an apology after enduring a dragon’s scream? How many friends would come stand beside me when rage is so hot they could feel its heat as they approached?
To my doctor I asked, how long until I am natural once more? How much longer until I can breathe, until the release of my kidneys, liver, heart and lungs from a rage so strong it frightens even me? He said it would take time.
My arms began to itch.