Eight months had passed since my brother had passed away. Consumed with guilt that I am alive and wasting my life, by reliving the past and hating myself, whilst his was life was cut so short. The counsellor I had been seeing since February had called me in late May to say she couldn’t work with me anymore. Someone at work had collapsed and died. My nephews were still being tested to see if they had the same hereditary condition that had snatched my brother away from us.
I felt total and utter despair, like I just couldn’t take any more. Despite finding a new counsellor, who happens to be great, I just felt like the pressure in my head was building and building. My chest and stomach felt heavy and tight, I was full of anger and sadness and my mind and body felt like they could explode at any moment. I went to work; my commute is a couple of hours and I sobbed all the way there. I kept telling myself how useless I am, how alone I am. I tried to get on with my day, but I just couldn’t stop crying, so I had to ask my manager if I could go home.
As I was walking, I stopped to cross the road. Noticing a bus approaching, I stepped right to the edge of the curb. I thought to myself just take one big step out and it will all be over. I obviously didn’t step out, I am not writing this from the “other side”. But for that split second I thought I was going too. I called my counsellor and told her I was in real trouble, she agreed to see me later that day.
I lost the plot
For at least a few days I was still feeling as bad as it gets, I just wanted to die. When an argument with my husband tipped me over the edge. I had a complete meltdown, I screamed and ranted, shouted louder than I have ever shouted. Then I screamed and screamed and screamed, oh and then I screamed some more. I’m surprised I didn’t burst a blood vessel, my neck was so tight, my fists clenched, my throat felt like it was being ripped out.
Months of pain, sadness, anger and frustration exploded out of my body in rage. I don’t really know what I was shouting, and I don’t think it matters. It was the letting it all come rambling out that mattered. It’s a shame that I can’t scream like this more often. It is far better than the other destructive techniques I use to vent my anger and frustration. I’d like a soundproof room, where I can lock myself away and rant the pain away.
I only stopped screaming and shouting because I felt so exhausted, I didn’t have the energy to continue. Burnt out, I then went to my bed and I cried myself to sleep. I woke the next day feeling much better. It also appears to have shifted something in me, because days later a new me appeared.