Scream! Howl! Roar!

Letting It All Pour Out | 😱 No. 006

Now a man can crack in many ways—can crack in the head, in which case the power of decision is taken from you by others; or in the body, when one can but submit to the white hospital world; or in the nerves . . . it was his nervous reflexes that were giving way—too much anger and too many tears.

So the question became one of finding why and where I had changed, where was the leak through which, unknown to myself, my enthusiasm and my vitality had been steadily and prematurely trickling away.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Crack-Up”

Photo by Luis Villasmil on Unsplash

I leaned forward, pressed myself into the steering wheel, and screamed so loud in the car today I could feel my chest burning even after the final vibrations finished shaking their way out of my throat.

The pain lingered throughout the work day, so I spent a lot of time poking around at the tender spots with an index and middle finger while I read emails, as though my anxious prodding had the power to heal.

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On this particular early morning, still dark and cold, I’m running late to work for all the mundane reasons. My toddler, who is non-verbal and autistic, has woken up two hours earlier than usual, a beautiful wrench in an already fragile routine.

I can’t find my keys or winter jacket. I left my laptop in the bedroom. I spill hot coffee on my hands. Scatterbrain: Need to work on organization. Need to work on caring about organization.

I leave the house thinking I’ll definitely be late to work, but I actually end up catching enough green lights to feel a nascent hope: Maybe I won’t be late after all.

Then, approaching an unavoidable single-lane road—so close to my destination, so close to regaining control of the clock—a lumbering concrete mixer truck pulls out in front of me and sluggishly moves down the street, and my hope is eclipsed by a resurgent anxiety as I watch the minutes tick away.

Hemmed in on all sides, looking to my left and finding no way to safely pass, and with the view in front of me obstructed by the truck, my only option is to lose myself in the slow hypnotic revolutions of the mixing drum until I’m tumbling around inside of it, bouncing against its bladed walls, up and down, side to side, never quite submerged, never quite solidifying.

I reach into my belly for the biggest scream I can find and pull it up and expel the dense ugliness I feel building inside of me, imagining it leaving behind a large hole with burned, smoking edges; I abandon all self-consciousness, all manner of restraint, and give myself a reckless permission to let it all pour out.

Eventually parked and sitting in the orange glow of the parking garage, I tremble and search for answers within my heart while trying to forgive myself for yelling.

But I wasn’t yelling. You yell at someone or something when you’re angry. I wasn’t angry at anyone, and I certainly wasn’t angry with the driver of the cement mixer. We’re all commuting together on this cold morning, all of us going to work.

I was screaming: Purging myself of the fear, of an indeterminate but all-consuming hurt in hopes of awakening something dormant within me, of recuperating something I lost along the way to reach this place in my life.

I was howling: Searching for someone, anyone. Wolves howl for many reasons, including when they’re lost and trying to locate their pack. Maybe if I howl loudly enough, the loneliness will go away.

I was roaring: Attempting to scare off the dark thoughts that too often consume and threaten me. I’m tired of feeling weak, of feeling scared, of feeling hopeless, of feeling trapped in my insignificance: I work, and I pay off my many debts, and I scrub crusty things off dirty plates, and I will die with the song still inside of me.

In this moment, the deep, overflowing love I have for my family can’t save me. I am so inexplicably sad. I run my hand over my chest and throat: Where does this come from? What are you?

Maybe if I scream louder next time—if I keep howling and roaring—I will finally understand and overcome these feelings once and for all.

The clock on my dashboard startles me out of my revery with unexpected encouragement: There’s still time—I still might not be late.

The car alarm beeps behind me, and my hurried steps echo in the parking garage. I push open the heavy exit door and step out into the surprising warm light of a rising sun.