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“Tell me where it hurts, she’d say. Stop howling. Just calm down and show me where.

But some people can’t tell where it hurts. They can’t calm down. They can’t ever stop howling.”

Margaret Atwood


Sorry, I’m a little distant.

My emotions are easily comparable to a rubber-band, when pulled too taut they snap and I’m left with nothing, just an ache and no remnants remaining to fashion into anything resembling normalcy. For someone who calls themselves a writer I struggle with vocalizing how I’m feeling. I excel at walking on egg-shells, beating around the bush, saying enough to provide a glimmer into where my mind is at but nothing substantial to latch onto.

But- I’m trying to heal, and I recognize that broadening my scope of comfort is part of the recipe for progress. I can’t let myself lay down rigid guidelines that I refuse to push further anymore. I’ve been shrouding myself in the shadows for so long it’s about damn time I seek some light. Because honestly, though I talk of the sunshine with a fondness unrivaled, I have always seeped darkness somewhere in the hollows of my soul.

And it plagues, it aches- but it also caresses.

There is a safety in the over-grown decaying garden that has swept it’s way throughout my insides. If I don’t let anyone see the extent of the neglect we can all pretend it doesn’t exist. I continue to parade myself as neurotic, quirky, mess of a girl who’s social awkwardness is charming, while all the tell-tale signs of distress go unnoticed.

I don’t sacrifice the facade long enough to let anyone read between my lines. I am a constant stream of consciousness, endless chatter that teeters between whimsical and annoying. Calculated behind it all, orchestrating my own performance with a keen eye.

I’m too dramatic for my own good, but these are my thoughts and I’m unable to dilute them for you. I wish I could lighten up, ease off the throttle, retire the metaphors and be a little more raw with you all but it’s just not how I operate.

Lately the idea of talking to anyone makes my stomach bubble with anxiety so ferocious it steals my breath, but I push onward, over-exerting myself in an attempt to pretend that it’s all a figment of imagination.  Lately the nightmares have gotten so vivid that sleep evades, I stare at the ceiling and feel each minute in excruciating longevity as the morning approaches, daunting and unforgiving. Lately I am dark circles under eyes and a tremor in my hands that I can’t shake and legs that are more restless than they are most days.

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I’ve likened myself to a wolf in almost every piece of writing I’ve created, and the comparison feels clearer than ever. I am howling at the moon most nights because she is the only safe outlet, I am entirely ruled by over-sensitive instincts, non-trusting behind the smile I practice in front of my mirror. I am tooth and claw, fang and nail, ceaseless bellows to ebony skies.

I’ve lost my footing, and it’s not very uplifting. It’s not something I enjoy sharing. I’ve touched upon this before, tried to paint myself in a fair light- shadows and highlights to portray the balance of my character.

But as of late there’s been a disruption in my usual template and I don’t know how I feel about sharing a story with no moral to seal off the tale with a grin.

There is just an itching, clawing, unease. Changing my mind every five minutes about where I want to be, self-analyzing at a degree so alarming that there is no respite, no time to forgive myself, just a voice in my head that grows more bitter and shrewd with time. Loud days where migraines are inescapable.

When I got like this in high-school I used to vow that I would vent to somebody- anybody really. But each day I would go to school and hide behind a cheery face and remind myself of the role I had tasked myself to play. And all that secrecy takes its toll. So now- in a move both bold and cowardly I’m disclosing my state to anyone who stumbles across this page, but I’m still hiding behind a keyboard as I express it all.

I suppose I want to force myself to face facts, to try to spark some kind of retributive act. Maybe one piece of self-indulgent whining will spur me back into writing. Cause lately my inspiration has abandoned me and I’m sick of circling the same old concepts in my brain, trying to deduct a way to write them differently.

And then I worry that something like this will cheapen everything previously written.

I truly am figuring out ways to command more space, to accept my reflection as beautiful, to unlearn negative habits.

Some demons are bigger than others- is all.

And this is an evil within myself that I don’t know how to face quite yet. I haven’t given this feeling a name.

I just know that the wolf in me is getting restless.

So I ask for patience.

I’m trying, and one day I will reflect upon this and not remember what it feels like to war with oneself so hard your mind succumbs to the blood-bath. To feel satiated, unlike the need to devour or be devoured. To tame the canine.

Until then,

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Posted by:rachelle

Figuring it out as I go along, documenting and staying as honest as possible.

2 replies on “the wolf in me

    1. I’ve always felt such a connection to wolves, they’re such mysterious, sharp animals. There’s something very sad about them, so it’s cool that we’ve both found solace in the comparison. Thanks for reading! All the love ❤

      Liked by 1 person

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