I WANT TO YELL.
Back in January, I saw a new therapist for the first time. We quickly launched into discussing a recent moment in my life where I was unable to speak up with someone in my family. Just couldn't do it, and it wouldn't have helped if I could. My therapist asked me, what would you have said? I told her I wouldn't have said anything, it would be something more primal. The roar of a lion. I would roar like a lion and the person sitting across from me's hair and face would blow in the wind of my power like a cartoon.
She said, want to try?
I considered for a moment. I had just met this woman, but appreciated her allowing, safe energy. We were in a public building and this particular suite was shared with a handful of other therapist's offices. I knew we were not alone because there were more than a few people also in the waiting room with me when I arrived. These walls were not sound-proof.
But fuck it, I thought. And I let it rip.
The most unfamiliar, deep-gunk of a wail came out of me. It was long and thick and chest-echoing. Afterwards, as I sat there in the strange vacuum of non-sound, I was blissfully empty.
I felt the impact of that roar for weeks. Everything about my mind was less dusty, healthy thoughts were plainly more available, love and warmth more automatic. Bad habits less gripping. In that one fell swoop, I had shed old skin, coughed up dated trashy, wordless beliefs.
It was the caliber of Noise that shakes the countless hidden starlings from the branches and forces them soaring upward and sideways into the tousled, inky dance they were meant to be doing in the first place. And it was in me all along.