The Appeal of Losing Your Shit

I am a pretty composed person. I take care of my shit. Take it to shit store, or put it in a museum, as Morty would say, and I've done a pretty good job.   Through sickness and in health, through rich and through poor, I've kept my shit together and put my life back in track.

I fucking hate it.

"You'll figure it out" I've been told. "Sorry, so and so needs our help more."

It means I am always alone. I am always in charge. I am always my own calvary. 

I watch as other people are taken care of. Another bill paid. Another ride given. A present bigger and better than anything I've ever been given. And when I do take care of my shit, because there is no other option except the deep, dark, infinitely final alternatives, people tell themselves, "she didn't need my help! She's fine without it!"

I want to lose my fucking shit.

Fuck up my job. Blow up my relationships. Crash my car. Do drugs. Do lots of drugs.

Then people will pay attention to me. Then they will hear me. Then they will love me.

Is it because we love drama? Do we love people who need us more? Is the world so filled with pain, unless we are the loudest,  biggest, neediest motherfucker, that no one cares? Are my mewling cries of help so pathetic that no one can hear me, because I never learned how to ask for help?

It's the worst as I get out of my car. That moment where you choose what to do next. Beat the shit out of someone. Scream obscenities. Fuck my life. Careen dangerously out of control.

I can see the appeal of losing your shit.