Rage, Betrayal, and Redemption

A few moments ago, I had a meltdown. An absolute, downright, tear-filled, attack-everything meltdown. It was 28 hours after seeing a facebook post that sunk my heart to my stomach, a miserable day at work, and a glass of wine in the making.

Pre-meltdown, I began to write. I wrote an anger filled poetic letter that I had intended to post for the world to see. But as I got into the second page, I witnessed myself proofreading, erasing, re-writing, and masking my true feelings with words that others could comprehend.

Why?

Because the pain I was feeling was too horrid for the internet to read, I didn't want to be institutionalized 6 days before the marathon. and it's not what Lauren would have wanted.

So I said f*** the blog, typed out words faster than my brain could process, and broke two nails in the process. Then I cried until I was able to center myself back to thinking about why I began writing in the first place. This letter, while raw and true, would have done nothing but condemn the people I addressed it to. It wouldn't teach others how to navigate their grief in a healthy way. It wouldn't set the right example on how to treat another human being, despite how disgusted and pained I feel.

And let me tell you - writing, without the fear of how another will react to your words, is a damn good feeling. It's even better with a glass of pinot. It has the power to free your soul.

& I don't do it often enough.

I wish I could blame this blog on the censorship of my own thoughts, but I know I would do it regardless.

So I'm challenging myself to write more, maybe to even pick up a real pen and notebook, and banish the thought of judgement others may give for what I have to say. But along with this, I'm challenging myself to witness my feelings and teach what I learn. To do what I wanted this blog to do.

But I'll leave you with the last piece of advice. Sometimes writing is the most soothing thing to do, but most often, you need to confront your feelings head on, and confront those who hurt you.

All of my pent-up pettiness is urging me to call them out by name, to have just one moment of acting like a child and blaming it on my grief, but I know that I'm better than that.