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I screamed myself hoarse today, unable to keep my hands busy enough to quiet my mind. I screamed at the sky, at the walls, and into nothingness. And once my voice was gone and I could no longer make a sound, there was still so much left.

Anger. Pain. Sadness. It came out in my cries, my screams and in all of things I broke. There it was, all sprawled out around me were the emotions I tried to compartmentalize and ignore. They, relentless like me, refused to be contained any longer.

Life continually deals me shitty hands that I have never complained about but make the best of. Mud into clay. Something out of nothing. War into peace. I keep having to evolve into someone more resilient, more tenacious and each time I do, pieces of my smile are left behind.

Keeping my hands busy to quiet my mind is a double-edged sword that’s only temporarily effective. At night, when it’s time to rest, my brain bombards me with all the thoughts and feelings I tried to keep away. No matter how many Lego sets I build, workouts I complete, or games I play-they are all just distractions.

I was holding myself together by sheer will while getting my ass kicked by life, but there’s always the last needle that breaks the camel’s back. So here I am, not broken completely, but not functioning and that’s okay. I often remind myself that while others see me as an impenetrable pillar of strength, I am only human.

My job is demanding more than I can give these days. It’s hard enough to get out of bed, fake enthusiasm, and resist the urge to punch my coworkers in the face. Now they have the nerve to want more. Well, I want a job that I like, coworkers that aren’t exhausting, and to be left alone. We can’t always get what we want. In the meantime, they can have what’s left and it isn’t much.

I didn’t grow up in a space where it was safe to talk about your feelings. So as an adult, it’s difficult. I don’t like it, and it makes me uncomfortable. I am overly secretive about everything. I only share my thoughts with unresponsive pieces of paper or confidants and friends few and far in between.

Some people pray. Some people like to talk. I prefer to write all my closely guarded thoughts and emotions in hopes of understanding them. While I often lie to the outward facing world about how I’m doing, I make it a practice to not lie to myself. Things are rough and they have been for a while. I am exhausted but it’s not the type of tiredness that can be cured with sleep.

I don’t want people to worry about me. Despite the tone of this piece, I assure the thousands of readers of this blog that I am fine. See? I just made a joke because only about three people read it. Ha.

If I could make my own pick me up, I would go somewhere warm and feel the sun on my skin. I’d play with animals. I’d enjoy the silence and appreciate being in nature. Then when I was ready, I’d take out each thought and emotion one by one and resolve it. That would be ideal, but it’s a luxury that isn’t a reality for me. So I’ll make do with what I have, which is what I’ve always done. Sheer will and unresponsive blank pieces of paper.