How Emotions Become Words
I've found that I've been writing again, lately. My moods have definitely contributed to my work. I adore the feeling of little else.
Emotions; when it comes to my inner-most and vulnerable response to a particular situation or person: guard those feelings at all costs! “Build that wall!” Keep them concealed. Remain stoic and uninterested. Last but certainly not least, never, ever, EVER allow a soul to discover that their actions effect you enough to ruffle your feathers.
“Don’t give them the satisfaction, right?”
Arriving at the end of my wits, I sense that I am on the verge of an emotional tirade. The flood-gates can no longer remain secure. The filter is going out of the window!
I am red-seeing-angry. Agitated to the absolute hilt. Like a hair-trigger, I lash out, spitting seething unkind words at anyone within earshot. Constantly, in a state of defensiveness; physical reactions to the stress plague me. I find my jaw clenched, teeth gritting, fists balled so tightly, the sting of fingernails pierce my palms. My body so rigid, my muscles start to burn in agony.
The lies; I am constantly infuriated by the half-truths, subjectivity in place of objectivity, deflection, manipulation, the omission of facts, one-sided stories, and the adoption of the latest catch phrase, “My Truth.”
Well, what about The Truth?
The cruel disregard and blatant disrespect of a loving father, striving to reiterate that he, too, is a parent. Overwhelmingly powerless, my comfort isn’t enough to ease his deep-seated pain.
The notion that I simply don't matter crumbles my heart. Witnessing the selfishness and less than impressive child-rearing tortures me.
The children, deemed more of an inconvenience unless summoned as an accessory, a staged photo, ensuring social media is aware of her nurturing demeanor, never ceasing to remind the masses that she is an “independent, single mother.”
An anomaly, choices made by the mother are more self-serving than they are beneficial to the children.
Livid, I become, as the children are not her primary priority; consistently casualties of her poor, self-absorbed choices.
The obsessions of “glowing and growing,” “peace and productivity,” and claims of “good vibes only” are a far cry from actuality.
Social media, her sanctuary, easily avoiding reality; concealing the vile nature of her attitude and presence. Fantasy is her safe haven, the adoration of spirituality, rabbit-holing to the point of claiming supernatural abilities.
Ridiculous notions of grandiosity, describing oneself as a Goddess, who has "risen from the ashes”; the fixation on a factious bird best recognized in the “Harry Potter” series.
Freshly decorated with tattoos, proudly proclaiming the title of "badass,” while only five years shy of the age of FORTY.
“Meager” would be more fitting.
The substantial lack of motivation and aspirations is apparent; directly quoting an email authored by her, "I am so sick of my parents criticizing me and thinking so low of me."
The narrative continues, "I've come a long way and it just seems like it don't [sic] matter, they will always think I'm the disappointment, and the unsuccessful one in the family."
That was ten years ago. A correspondence between herself and her (then) husband ten years ago remains valid to this day.
Enduring a part-time job pushing a broom around an unfrequented local boutique, compensated by little more than minimum wage.
In most cases, holding any form of employment can be considered noble. Working is hard; which is why she favors claiming superiority, considering herself as a “self-made business owner.”
You have a camera, dear. Please take several seats.
Regarding this new, “wonderful-hash-tag-divorced” life SHE created:
SHE decided to leave her husband for the fourth time; an amazing, loving, and selfless man. She then proceeded to vilify him in the hopes of gaining sympathy, almost-too-gleefully, claiming the status of “victim.” The exaggerations of being a “survivor” contradicts her vie for victimhood.
It’s malingering and diminishes the survival-status of men and women who were and are true victims of domestic violence in any form.
Broke has become an acceptable state of being, possibly enjoying the financial woes, reiterating her strive for the insatiable need for sympathy. There’s no coddling in being a productive member of society; it’s mundane. Floating in the “lavish” pool of living several notches below the poverty level, so satisfies the crave for attention and pity.
Yes, I have allowed the actions of another to control my mood; I’m human. I didn’t choose the high road this time. It’s extremely difficult to remain stoic when children are involved; children I care for so deeply.
My son is constantly my first consideration. His well-being and fulfillment, providing him with constant affirmations of love and support are my priority. I would walk through broken glass for my son and three boys I have come to love as my own.
Some women have an aversion to motherhood; by choice, by circumstances, by mental incapacity. It’s reprehensible and unnatural. Motherhood should be cherished, not diminished. Ensure a healthy co-parenting relationship (regardless of personal BOUNDARIES), because it’s not about you. It’s not about you. It’s not about me. It’s not about vengeance, stubbornness, bitterness, hostilities, nor is it about gaining control of any situation at all costs—including the cost of a child’s happiness, creativity, and comfort.
As my emotions flow from my psyche, down to my thumbs that type this narrative, I conclude with this: