Motivation to Let Go

My fingers were tapping in no particular rhythm against the armrest
My thoughts chased themselves like birds trapped in an attic…

A few months back, my therapists tried to channel my viciousness into a constructive outlet, so I started to cut things with scissors. Heavy, cheap fabrics N bought by the bolt. I sliced through them with old metal shears going up and down: hateyouhateyouhateyouhateyou. The soft growl of the fabric as I sliced it apart, and that perfect last moment, when your thumb is getting sore and your shoulder hurt from hunching and cut, cut, cut … free, the fabric now swaying in two pieces in your hands, a curtain parted. And then what? That’s how I felt now, like I’d been sawing away at something and come to the end and here I was by myself again, in my small apartment with no job, no family, and I was holding two ends of fabric and didn’t know what to do next.

Again the birds in the attic battered around.

One envelope looked like dirty laundry, it was so soft and wrinkled- perked up out of a box.
I went upstairs to read the letter, sitting on the edge of my bed. Then, as I always do when I get nervy, I smushed myself into a small space, in this case the spot between my bed and the bedside table, sitting on the floor with my back to the wall. I opened the dirty envelope and pulled out an unwholesome piece of stationary. Familiar handwriting swarmed across it: tiny, frenetic, pointy, like a hundred spiders had been splattered across the page.
I began reading… till I got to the end.

I grabbed the thin neck of my table lamp and hurled the whole thing across the room, the lamp soaring in the air until its electrical cord stopped it short and it fell to the floor. I charged at it, yanked it from its socket, and threw it again. It hit the wall, the lampshade bumping off and rolling drunkenly across the floor, the cracked light bulb jutting out the top like a broken tooth.

I felt a ripple of illness, as if a vein running from my throat to my pelvis had gone sour.
I choked on my own spit, started coughing, my windpipe shut down…

I felt the hate departing my throat.

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~ by Disturbed Stranger on May 1, 2010.

 
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