[...] I don't know whether this is the beginnig of my anger, whether this way I have traced it all the way back to where it really comes from.

In reality, not. In reality, anger has been a part of my being for much longer. As a child already, anger was the single most foremost feeling I remember in everyday life. I was a little blond angel turning over tables, and no one knew why.
They did not care to try to wonder what the reason might be and tried to bring me into line by punishing me, stricter and ever more stricter. With the passing of time, and coming to a bigger age, I learnt to control my bursts of anger. I learnt to push the anger away when it needed an outlet and appear calm.
I learnt to push it away, push it deep inside of me, where it festered and dissolved my inner being like a heart of acid.

I bore my anger inside of me until it had eaten away all that I was, until nothing was left of the person I once was.

Really what sort of hand-wringing, wide-eyed idiots go to psychologists and are actually taken in by their obvious paid-to-be-compassionate pedagogue's smiley faces? What do normal people do, when something tragic happens and they need psychological services? I mean, these psycho-peoples' mere facial expressions drive me nuts now, and I haven't even lost a member of my family.

Last week I went to see a psychologist for the third time in my adult life, and for the third time it was a complete fiasco. What happened was - after the first two experiences I decided I would only go to someone on a recommendation. Last May a doctor gave me a phone number and so now I called this guy. He was closer in age to me and of the opposite gender than my first two shrinks. On the phone he sounded sympathetic. I took this as a reason to be optimistic and I went to his cabinet on the appointment I'd taken. However, almost the moment that I stepped inside and sat down, when this guy took the chair in front of me and gave me this long "meaningful" look and then asked in a very thespian sort of way "What you brings you here, young woman?", the whole histrionicness, the, um, psychologist-likeness of it all made me cringe and I knew I had to get up and walk out right there.
Even now I don't think I could talk to this person and take him seriously. Yuck.

If I scroll back in memory, I can determine that the first time I ever went to a psychologist I did actually talk to her. When I said "I'm continuously angry, so often I clench up and feel like I want to destroy things or be destroyed myself" she nodded understandingly. When I incidentally mentionned "my father" she half-jumped up from her seat as if I had just passed over a deeply significant point without noticing so myself. No, thanks, I am familiar with the worst of Freudian clichés without your help, and, almost needless to say, it took me less than 20 minutes into the session that I started making fun of her.

The second shrink I went to was even worse: After speaking to her for about ten minutes she just basically told me I don't really need a psychologist and things will be alright anyway, and then she charged me 50 Euros for it.

So, even psychologists seem to think I am not the type to go to a psychologist, and whenever I am face to face with one, the way they do things makes me cringe and run.
And yet, I drown in what I take to be my psychological problems. I intensely feel I need help. Less than two weeks ago I felt like I couldn't go on with my normal life without somehow sifting through all this shite in my head with the help of someone. I still don't feel quite capable of it now, and situations when it gets down to "the nitty-gritty" in real life (like job interviews) I fail infallibly in getting my act together.

I looked out of the window in the night and I saw only freedom in the distance to the ground.

I like being on the street. I like the energy of the city, the milling about of masses of people as the blue glow of dusk descends and the yellow and orange lamps go on in a maze of light around you.

At night, I love looking at the sky, at the stars that hide under the blinding light pollution of the nocturnal city. I love feeling the cold sting of the outside air on my face, as the rest of my body is warmly muffled up.

To fall from the rugged heights of a tired consciousness and sink into the soflty layered abyss of sleep.

I don't feel this kind of pain anymore, it has become a familiar sting, a mere irritation of my skin. These little stings don't amount to an all-encompassing malaise, they are washed out by a pain that sits deeper, a pain around which your entire being has been built. That phantom sting at the centre of who you are, whose shadow presence may crystalise, be revived by easy triggers, and that threatens to destroy you.

Events, as always, conspire against me. My own decisions lead to exclude me. I feel like, in a profound way, the cards are stacked against me. The extraordinarily good things that could happen don't, they rush past me, grazing me, leaving me in their trail, bruised by jealousy. The standard, lovely things life has to offer and that might assuage, falter.

Until my stomach will be worm-eaten, and my cough will be blood-tinged, I have anesthesized the pain. But how about getting my blood flow again ? I need to revive my dessicated skin. Emotionally I am growing sterile. The only time I feel blood beat at my temples is in anger.

After a soothing dream, I glide into wakefulness and immediately I can feel it hammering in my temples.

Rage reverberates through my being.

As the day passes, I manage to divert my thoughts of course, but in the morning the anger is pure.

Excess will catch up with you. But why does the punishment seem thrice the size of the sin?
I lie with my breath filtering out of me as if tinged with the taste of blood. My body and my mind have only ever been a kind of castigation.

A disabling heaviness creeps over me. It creeps into my blood as if every single of my breaths was poisoned. It binds my limbs. My gaze has withered. No amount of caffeine can pierce my torpor. I am prisoner to an inner person of paralyzation and pain.

Regret lies like a spike, painfully buried at the heart of your being.

I want to just dissolve myself in water and be drained off painlessly. But there's no quiet way to go.

I used to feel like kicking in my own teeth. I imagined how my head would snap back under the impulse and I relished the taste of blood filling my mouth.
I don't feel this degree of violence is enough anymore.
These days I feel I want to drag myself by the hair and drop myself off a steep cliff. When for hours your body is slack like an overcooked vegetable, nothing but a lifeless lump, dragging it overthere, to that cliff, seems an obvious endeavour. Feel the wind in your hair, you know. I often wondered how much desperation or self-hate it would need to take that step. But that's not what it takes. What it takes is tiredness.

It's since three years ago that I've been crying a lot. You grow older and you understand better what happened to you and whereas before you thought you could move on and away, now you cry. And then from then on, you just keep crying, you find pretexts, you create these pretexts, because you are too fucking paralysed to act in a normal way.

My dad had many daughters and they all died way too young. Some in the womb, one in infancy, two were born severly handicapped and died one at 12 one at 24.
I don't think the news of my death will do anymore than disrupt his afternoon coffee with one of his mistresses though.

My mum isn't cursed, but unlucky. She has one mentally handicapped boy and one suicidal daughter. I'm sorry I will destroy her life in this way. But mine was destroyed systematically during many long years in childhood and adolescence, and I am only administering the coup de grâce.

It was my dream to take to the mountains and take as many turkish soldiers with me as possible. I don't think I could physically manage though.
Ever seen a guerrilla who stuffs herself with anti-depressants and sleeping pills in order to get up in the morning?

I wear my folly in my eyes these days.

I've tested it. I've gone to the end of that road. There is no pushing further.

You have to dig there, where the path leads you to places hidden from mankind.
True to the brilliance that is yours alone.

I had too much time to think, and thought I had some sort of moment of epiphany. This euphoria-tinged feeling is always a lie.

Time to get drunk.

These are the days of my life I've suffered least. I realise this is the closest I'll probably ever get.

And yet, memories are rapists in their own right. At night, consciousness is the rapist of the mind.

Drinking to make being awake less painful. Drinking to take the edge away from consciousness.

When you allow yourself to have hot lunch at half past nine in the morning, just so you can start drinking wine with your food, you know alcoholism is looming.