I’m laying in bed in the dark. My husband is a few centimetres away, but it feels like miles. It feels like there’s a concrete barricade between us. There’s so much bitter feeling. He’s fast asleep (which does my head in, he can sleep regardless of how much tension there is) and I’m wide awake.
I want to cry and shout and hit something. I want to tear at my hair and dig my nails into my skin. I want to do something reckless. I want to go downstairs and break everything I can find: glasses, plates, bowls, everything. I want to draw on the walls and rip the pages out of books. I want to smash windows. I want to destroy any semblance of order.
I want to make the world reflect how I feel inside. I want it to be wrecked and broken. I want it to be messy and ruined and ugly.
I want to break things to distract from the feeling that I’m broken.
I want to let my anger out.
But instead I’m stuck here in bed in the darkness, screaming in silence, containing the rage I feel boiling my blood and churning in my stomach.
I hate life.