My Soft Rebellion

When we face the parts of ourselves we are ashamed to admit exist, they no longer hold power over us, they become our friends and not our foes.

I’ve seen the propensity for evil inside of myself. My tongue is sharp and can crack your bones in two when I am angry. 

When the perfect concoction of chaos has pushed my buttons, yes, I’ll explode. But there aren’t a lot of things that can do this, outside of just one that comes to mind, which is my family. 

Growing up in a toxic household, I was never taken seriously unless I was screeching at the top of my lungs. I was always pushed to a point where I would behave in unreasonable ways. The word crazy was often used as a weapon, and its damage was severe every time. 

Because there was truth to it – I was acting crazy. If anyone saw me, screaming profanities as if a demon had taken over my body, they would likely say, this bitch is psycho. 

I wouldn’t disagree. 

When I think back to that rage-consumed girl, I feel so embarrassed. I know my circumstances were crap and anyone would react the way I did – but I still can’t stand it. 

My actions had hurt people, they were maybe even the straw that broke some of my loved ones. I had always felt so powerless. I just never knew I could cause any damage, but I could. And I did.  

If you’ve done a terrible thing how long must you hold the guilt and shame for doing that terrible thing? Is it just up until the behaviour is corrected, or do you not feel bad at all because we’re all just human beings trying our best? 

Whatever the right course of action is, I’ve carried guilt for my inappropriate rage years after the matter. Letting go makes me feel like I’m saying it was okay to do. The guilt is my own form of punishment. 

The feelings have been big. Heavy. Consuming. Freeing them from me has been a long emotional process. 

I’ve learned to let them move through me in the off-putting physical ways that they manifest. 

For me, it looks like frustration, the kind that makes you hug your knees and rock back and forth with this desperate, childlike craving for a mother. I’ll find myself screaming into my pillow or stomping my feet, as if my body is in disbelief. 

Committing an act your psyche can’t reconcile with makes your body fight reality.

But when I let myself feel the chaos long enough, it always leads me to the same place: sadness.

The screaming I performed as an unhinged teen and even in my early twenties was just a glimpse into the violent despair inside of me, that black hole in my stomach aching for love. I see now that I was doing the best I could, even when it looked wild, messy, ugly. 

Facing my own propensity for evil has been crucial – it lets me know the chaos I’m capable of when I am triggered. It made me realize – if I don’t do the work, I’m no different from the people who hurt me.

There’s no way I could come to terms with these parts of myself without forgiveness, without grace. I would bury them deep otherwise and continue to explode. 

I am not a bad person for the bad things I have done, and I need to remind myself of this very often. Letting that kind of darkness spread inside of me is exactly what got me in this situation to begin with, that type of scrutiny is what’s kept the generations before me trapped in their contagious suffering. 

When I look at those parts with love, the parts that have screamed bloody murder, and finally say, “it’s okay that you’re here,” and then with a chuckle, “but what are we going to do with you sillies?” they no longer have any power over me. 

They become invited guests I’m learning how to be a good host for instead.