Oh I’ve got it, deep in the pit of my belly; that primeval anger that I’m not sure men understand. I could be wrong, for sure, maybe it’s more to do with illness than being female, but this is some sacred Goddess level anger shit.
The Tower appears in every reading, all my dreams revolve around teeth-pulling, menstrual blood, biting, hate-fucking, screaming, and fighting. And every waking moment swings between calm motivation and blood boiling anger.
Some might say that I’m regressing through the five stages of grief, but I’ve always had these “bite me, motherfucker” days. It’s when they become weeks that the world loses balance. This is day four. I’m a rage and caffeine fuelled ball of future plans, and I know this can’t last forever, but I’m making the most of it while it lasts. There’s a high chance that this isn’t totally healthy, but here’s the rub; I’m not sure what healthy is.
My family tree is so twisted it’s a creeping vine, the kind that tears houses down while simultaneously holding them up; I don’t know how many of my issues were caused by my family history and how many are just me.
Better yet; I’m ok with it.
I know most people find it more palatable when fucked up people are self-aware and nervous about what’s wrong with them, but I go for the self-aware, self-living route. I might hate my body, but I love my mind.
It’s weird, and it’s fucked up, and it works when it shouldn’t before crashing when it’s needed, but I love it. Crushing depressive lows make you appreciate the manic highs, anxiety and crippling empathy make you more aware of other people, anhedonia gives you relief, and this, this anger, is the tonic to it all.
I know I’m not invincible, but right now I feel it.
That’s how I came to decide that I will be doing my Masters Degree this year instead of next, I will succeed. In three years time I want a book out there and I want to be living in St Andrews with my dogs doing PhD.
So, bite me, motherfucker, if you think you’re holding me down.