Posted August 10th, 2017 by AlgebraAddict
August 10th, 2017
I find that when I describe my emotions to people, there’s one word that I keep using.
See, to me frustration isn’t just a feeling
It’s a state of being
It’s solving a puzzle, but the last piece won’t fit and inside I know that I’m going to have to take it all apart
Just to fit in the one last piece
But I’m too stubborn to do it.
It’s hearing ignorant words and wanting to slam the bigot in question up against a wall
And scream in their face how pathetic they are
But they’re my friend, and I can’t lose another friend.
It’s seeing the face of someone I hate, and wanting to pick a fight
To scream at them, and kick them in the gut so they fall over
But they’re stronger than I am. And in a fight, they would win.
Frustration is being weak.
It’s seeing on TV how the good guys are able to kick the bad guys’ butts
Just to protect the ones they love
And knowing that I’ll never have the capacity to do that.
It’s wanting, deep down, to get my ass handed to me.
To land the first blow, but then be smacked down onto the asphalt
And I’d know that at least I tried.
Frustration is wanting something that I can never have.
It’s wanting to be believed in,
Even though I can’t even believe in myself
And remembering with a jolt that I will never, ever be deserving of anyone’s trust.
Frustration is a fire that’s lit inside of me
It starts in my diaphragm
It creeps down
Down into my belly, through my core and my groin
It makes my right leg shake uncontrollably
And my left leg be uncannily still
And it roars up, through my arms and through my throat and I’m going to scream it all out—
But I can’t.
I’m in class right now.
And I want to succeed, don’t I? So getting kicked out of class is not an option
Frustration is wanting something more
Sleep, eat, school, homework, sleep, I’m so fucking sick of it
But all the same, I want to do well in school, and so I must at least attend my classes
And do my homework
And not lose my mind (at school anyway).
You can see my frustration, sometimes
Frustration is layer upon layer of scar tissue, embracing my thighs and my hip
Frustration is the bit of mascara beneath my eye, because I didn’t wipe off my makeup last night
Frustration is the bruising on my arm, where I punched myself because I couldn’t find anyone else to punch
Yes, you can see it.
But you don’t believe it; not really.
And you don’t understand:
I’m not frustrated.
I don’t have frustration.
I am frustration.
I am everything I hate, and more.
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