A cliché of anger

I have a huge weight of anxiety and stress burdening me today. A morning that felt good has unfolded into a day of unsure thoughts and sadness. I am unable to take my focus away, its haunting and permeating all my thoughts it is debilitating me.

In applying techniques of mindfulness I am able to sense a minute point of positive in a mind that is otherwise wandering aimlessly and frustratingly through despondent thoughts, sadness lingers like a sky of grey cloud, unwilling to rain or give any warmth of the sun. I worry. I worry in a way that is far more emotional than rational as it lacks structure, meaning or form. The weight on my soul is heavy as I attempt to look away from this frustrations point of neutrality. Look back, no sign. Look forward, nothing. Where has my sense of hope gone, swept away, help hostage by the sadness. I will myself into changing my perspective of the now, but no this moment remains so forlornly neutral, still the grey presides.

It feels to me as though two weeks of proactive cognitive steps that I have been applying in the attempt to retrain the thought processes of my mind, have been wasted. I hold a very real and immediate feeling of failure. The knowledge that this day will pass is there, however distant, the last barrier between me and black lying below. Such is my harsh reality.

I’m shaking, shaking with sadness, a self perpetuating sadness, a sadness that manifests itself with wild irrational thoughts of self loathing and hatred. There I was only hours ago trying to find the words to articulate how I saw this healing process progressing , how I dared dream of focusing on words that encouraged you, the reader, into believing that there is an end point to this tale. A place in the future tinged with hope and happiness. Now read again these words above, can I see a sense of hope or direction? No just some foul pool of sorrow lying there stagnating in a scared mind. Mine is a mind that seeks pity, but that pity is being misconstrued made to seem so contrived so twisted by this illness. It wants me to just crawl away and hide at such conceitedness only offering me respite in the great clichés with which it encourages me to flay myself. What a waste what a fool, pleading for contentment and happiness how can I have such demands. Wretched beast, poor forlorn soul. Worry, just worry, it is an art that you master so well. A mastery that bring tears of sympathy and compassion, tears that this emotionally muted scribe does not feel he deserves.

Shaking. Hating. Hurting. No sugar coating here.

Where is the predictability? Where is that certainty that lends itself to those who manage hour to hour day to day in controlling this tightrope of curdling emotions? I want it, I want a feeling that it is there. Yes, that’s right, go and reflect try to remember what positives you have already felt and shared this week. Right now, does it matter? Of course not how could I let it, and therein lies the predictability. So assured that this mess of feelings is what I know best. How, how can I remember how the good things were. Even with the great strength of those supporting me in the here and now I can muster no more than a sullen emotion of ‘whatever’. Tomorrow, well that’s predictable is it not, that’s the time of false hope and dreams tied down and spat upon by this filthy illness.

And how I know that all this is just the work my mind, an area so dark bitter and hateful, so scarred from its only self mockery and wretchedness so condemned to defeat. Yet in its final throes this tormented soldier remains unwilling to surrender its fortress of despair, it lashes out blindly in the hope of leaving on last deep life sapping wound. The armoury is all but fired, the last bastion repelled, it’s cornered like a dog looking back out at a wasteland the war ravaged mental plain that is my mind. It lies there the evil seeping from its wounds, smirking at the damaged it has left in its wake. Self assured of the irreparable damage it has done

It lingers like a malignant cancer unwilling to give me back to the world. It knows that I am safe in here safe for it to continue its ravaging war of destruction of my self-worth, my self-acceptance and my soul. In here I pay it such attention, all my energy focused on its defeat. It is selfish and hateful unwilling to surrender as it knows, it fears that this battle is its final chance to etch its mark on my history.

You Dictator, agitator, liar and thief your judgement deserves nothing but a solitary hell devoid of thought. A place so numb and empty no soul can survive, let a darkness descend so heavy so poignant with detest of your trickery that nothing, not even the stillness could utter your name.

Die you Black Dog. Just die.


~ by Rob McClintock on October 12, 2010.

One Response to “A cliché of anger”

  1. Oh Rob sending you the biggest hugs today because I think you just need them. Hugs and nothing else. Luc x

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