Anger issues


I’m being held hostage. In my own home, in my own body by my own heart, my own emotions; my own damn sentimentality. I feel soft as a marshmallow. A soggy, sticky marshmallow melting in hot, sweet chocolate and devoured by unsentimental creatures from an unsentimental world I don’t understand, where the pain and ruin, downfall and tragedy of others, is entertainment and subject off mockery, cynical analyzes and obvious exploitation. Beings from an indefinable world inside my head somewhere I can’t quite set my finger upon. Like shadows in the farthest of my viewing edge which disappears when I turn my head to see who they are, what it is. They are whispering lies and truths and unfinished stories back and forth til my mind is in caos of intangibles. Can I survive if I let my heart die? Can I still remain my humanity if I sell my soul for peace? If I sell my soul for safety?

I close my eyes and soar away. I clothe myself in wings and carry off into the unknown, pitch black universe. Darkness surrounds me with millions of miles to the nearest star. I wonder how I can find my way back home, without stopping, without turning, without looking back over my shoulder. I end up on a strange planet, dimmed enlighted in the absence of colours and warmth; devoid of kindliness and care. I find myself lying on a dirt floor, naked, but not cold. Struck down by gravity, locked in behind walls of faded wood. Kept prisoner by enemies surrounding me without showing their identity. And I say to my self in a calm, lowered voice: “Remember: You are never alone!”. And I answer without a sound: “I’ll remember”.

I open my eyes, grab my phone and log in on facebook. Looking for someone else awake, for a chat, or to call. For every time I miss I feel more alone, betrayed by all, with no friends and no hope. A girlfriend at Vestre Gravlund, a comerade at Ullersmo, another on rehab. I have noone I can call four o’clock in the morning. That sucks! My life sucks! I don’t want to live it any more. There is too much sorrow, too much suffering, too much scuabbling and too many schemes. I start to erase my pals and block my gals on facebook. Throw people out of my life in cyberspace. Realize there’s no point in doing so and decide to deactivate my account instead. I’ve done it before. It silences the hellish noice between my ears. At least a little, at least for a while. I get up, walk into the livingroom and sit down on a hundred year old footstool, embroidered by an old aunty, and cry my eyes out. Let tears and snot run freely. I need someone to talk to. I open my phone again and google the word “crises” and several numbers appears. There are two of them which are operated around the clock. One is church, the other is not. It’s something about religion and insanity I personally think are joint together like popcorn and movies, and I don’t feel like talking to a priest, so I choose the other option. I need someone that can get me grounded, not someone who will shove me off to heaven.

A machine velcomes me, tells me that I have the right to two conversations a day and asks me to please hold the line.

Tuut, tuut! “You are number one in line. Please hold!”. Tuut, tuut, tuut, tuut. “Our counsellors are occupied. Please hold the line, or try again later. If life is at stake, please dial 113.”. Nope! It’s not that bad! My life’s definetly not at stake. I smear myself in patience like I would marinate a steak and let it soak for a day before I let it fry, and hold the line. Tuut, tuut, tuut. “You are number one in line. Please hold!”. What the…?! I’m crying here! Tuut, tuut, tuut. “Our counsellors are occupied. Please hold the line!”. My tears stop, and I get annoyed. Tuut, tuut. The machine tells me they can call me back if I choose not to wait. I will lose my anonymity because I have to give them the number to my cellphone, but not to worry; their counsellors are obligated to confidentiality. I will keep my place in line, and they will call me up between the hours of 08.00 a.m and 13.00 p.m.. I take a deep breath and let it out hard from my flabbering lips. It’s four hours till 08.00 a.m.. Tuut, tuut, tuut. “You are number one in line. Please hold!”. I have forgotten what I wanted to talk about, and hang up.

Fuck! It! All! I google the word “lobotomy” instead. I wonder if it can be done to someone who’s awake, or if I have to beat him unconscious. I know more than one who would be better off without their need of control. People without heart, personalities without souls. Those who believe they have the right to do harm if they don’t get what they want. Men who believe they have the right to force themselves upon women. A small hammer and an icepick, and suddenly the world would be a better place to everybody. Or at least to me.

I go back to bed. Fall asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, but before I close my eyes and sink into the warm forgetfulness under the duvet, I conclude after all that I still trust science more than church…


Anger issues

In karma we trust

I no longer understand what my psychologist want from me. Off course it was a lot worse when I had a therapist who didn’t understand me, but it’s pretty darn frustrating not to understand your therapist either. That eternal ongoing nagging about getting intouch with my feelings. I don’t get it. I feel like getting up and walk away, that’s what I feel. I think I’ve said that a couple of times already. But it seems like she means something else. To get intouch with my feelings is obviously not what I’m thinking of. What I would like to do, what I imagine. It’s not about what’s hidden in the darkest depths of my inner self.

There has been said and written a lot about forgiving and reconciliation. Meaningless phrases about forgive, but not forget. That you have to forgive to find peace of mind. To be able to move on. That you have to forgive because that’s what you do if you’re a good person. There are many things I can ignore. Out of love. Out of laziness. Of wisdom. Because I can’t have kittens in prison. Because there comes another day tomorrow. Because it’s insignificant. Because it serves me more to let it go. Because there’s no point in running around searching for vengeance towards someone who dies all by them self, or just ruin their lives without my help. Because I don’t kick downwards. Because I simply just have a life to live, but forgive?

It’s when I consider a hammer versus an axe that I run off to the pub. It’s when I catch my self pondering about how I can find out someones where abouts without leaving traces that I’m willing to accept almost any company or interlocutors because almost anything appears innocent and nice and acceptable compared to my own brains ability to figure out methods of torture. And believe me; I’m very inventive! I lifelong studie of creative processes as well as reading forbidden books since my parents hung the key to our house in a string around my neck, has prepared me for almost anything. Before I was ten I knew how to arrange a car accident which would release me from those individuals whos dna I was made of, but hardly could be claimed to be particularly suitable nurturers. I don’t know why I never did tha, but it’s a long time since I stopped imagine different accidents for them to die from. After all, I doubt I would get less pissed by experiencing even more shit. Or traumas, that is.

I believe there is a very thin line between pleasure and pain. I don’t believe the line between fantasize and realize is equally fine, but I do believe that all of those who claims they never even once have fantasized about performing ruthless, violent actions, or that they are incapable of hating someone, are lying. And those who claims they have never felt schadenfreude when somebody they would like to rip the head off, fucks up big time, are lying. This I BELIEVE! What I KNOW is that there’s no satisfaction in fantasizing about revenge, about violence. Imagening twisting a corksrew into the eye of some asshole I despise, even if I see the picture before my eyes a thousand times, wont give me any liberation nore comfort from my inner hell. And anybody who claims they don’t understand what I’m talking about, are lying!

That is what anger issues is all about!

It’s about knitting obsessivly instead of piercing someones testicles with my knitting needles even though it has been called for. It’s about not doing what the instincts of every single cell in my gut urges me to do. It’s about bathing in my own sweat, my own tears, my own blood, my own pain whilst I torment my self with questions with no answers. Why did all this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this? But I didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t me. Everything was just coincidences. A hell of a conglomeration of the traps of life. Who we are borned to be, and what life we are borned to live, is all a matter of luck or misfortune. So where do forgiving fit into this? There are no more forgivness than there is free will. I just need to find something else to think about. Something that makes me happy. Something that gives my life meaning, and my days contents until the moment comes when I se an oppurtunity to satisfy my darker side. Like seeing my eks tread on a rusty nail, get blood poisoning and staphylococcus aureus, and be forced to amputate from the neck down. It’s all about seeing why being so bloody furious really is kicking my own butt as well as kicking somebody who are already lying face down like they did when they did what they did. And the sweetest revenge is living well. That’s when I can get in touch with my feelings and tell my psycholigist that I sincerely are breathing with my stumach and my shoulders at ease. Or maybe I’ll just stop feeling…

Anger issues


It is said that the devil loves secrets unspoken. Particularly those which gnaw like demons on a tormented soul. Can this raging demons be defeated without taken them by their horns? Can evil be killed with silence? Can I restrict the demons in my heart by not talking about them, or just forget that they are there if I never mention them again? Can I protect myself and feel safe, if I keep quiet about the abuse, or do I only protect the abuser?

It was a cold and dark february night in the year of 2001. I was visiting my boyfriend at the premises of his club in Oslo. I woke up by the door very carefully being closed. The only light in the room came from the blizzard on the screen of a small portable tv a few feet from the bed where I was lying next to him. The first thing I noticed was that he was lying under the duvet, while I was lying on top of it. I was cold. Or rather; my upper body was cold. I couldn’t feel the lower part of it. I tried to pull out the duvet from underneath me, but I couldn’t move anything but my arms. I was paralyzed from my chest down. I could lift my head a little, and I saw that my knees was bent all the way up and forced down flat to both sides like I was placed like this in some kind of perverted, lying lotus position with my abdomen completely exposed. This was wrong! This was more then just wrong!

I grabbed a hold on the bedside with my left hand so I could twist my upper body in a way that made me able to get a grip with my right hand as well. I pulled myself over on the side and rolled out of the bed. My feet bumped into the floor while I still held on to the bedside. I was standing in a position like a sumo wrestler, ready for fight, but when I let go of the bed to stand up straight, I turned uncontrollably around my own axis, and had to grab on to the bed again so I wouldn’t just fall apart like an empty sack. My hole body was trembling. I couldn’t straighten my legs, nor my upper body, and in the light of the blizzard from the tv I saw the picture of what had been done to me. White glowing rage lit behind my eyes.

I could’ve murdered him at the spot if only my body had functioned properly, which it didn’t. In any way. To the extent I could move at all I buckled around and slammed a foot into his fat belly. There was no strength in the kick, or in my bare foot, but he had been awake all along. “Auch!”. He squeaked like the rodent he is: “If you can’t behave, you can go home!”. He pulled the duvet over his shoulders. I was unable to answer, or move, or do anything, and even less go anywhere. I let my ravaged body drop on the bed and fell asleep immediately.

I rised from the mattress into sitting position as I woke up. Sitting like that, on the bedside, looking down to the floor, my head was empty of thoughts, words, and images. Everything at that moment was an endless, hellish feeling which scattered from my chest to every, singel cell in my entire body. It was leaking out of every pore of my skin like fat, stinky soot, and my heart was filled with an ice cold emptyness.

I stopped smiling. I stopped laughing. I stopped dancing. I ran ill from heartbreak and rage. I started screaming. A furious, irrepressible howl emerged from my aching uterus, through my darkened heart, and my torn soul. I screamed at him. I screamed at his friends. I screamed at my friends and my neighbours. I screamed at the wall. I screamed at the tv. I screamed at the prime minister and the queen and the king. I screamed at the silence surrounding me. I screamed at the past, and I screamed at the future. I screamed with all the power of my lungs. I screamed without a sound. I screamed with all the strength that I had while my life went past and my youth was gone.

For ten years I screamed like that until the rescue finally entered my life. A tiny savior; a furball with four paws, big, blue, playfull eyeballs, sandpaper kisses and a heart of unconditional love. He curled up in my hair, in my armpit, under my chin, and patched together those pieces of my shattered heart with his purrs, and his meows, and slowly, bit by bit, that big chunk of ice in my chest melted and disappeared.

Anger issues · Love

This fierce and violent infatuation

So I’m lying here, in my bed, sleepless, tasting my own garlic breath, with only a castrated, male cat as my company, wondering where that great love took off. I met him in another town, in another world, in another life, in another millenium. He sat down next to me and said: “What if me and my brothers took you to a room and gang raped you just a little?”. I looked at him with my big, blue eyes and smiled. “Now you made me think of something. I don’t know what it’s called. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”. He paid curiously attention to what I was about to explain. “It’s this little thing that women wore during World War II. A kind of tube, and on the inside of this tube there where knives sharp as razor blades,” He swallowed. Heavily. “and this tube the ladies stuck up in their vagina, because you see: if they couldn’t prevant rape, it should at least not go unpunished.”. I smiled like a cat licking cream of her whiskers while watching his reaction. He thought long and hard whilst his jaw moved back and forth, looking up at the top shelf in the bar. At last he took a deep breath and sighed before he answered. “On the other hand we might as well not.”. He left without a word. He just slipped off the barstool and disappeared into the shadows of their clubhouse.


My thoughts are wandering like ghosts through the night. Sometimes I talk to him like a lonely child talks to an invisible friend, but I’m not a lonely child. I don’t even feel lonely. I feel comfy and varm, wrapped up in a bed with linen of soft flannel. Washed and made late at dawn just yesterday. The bedroom is parfumed with the scent of peach coloured roses. They’re standing on the floor in a cracked crystal vase. Breathtakingly beautiful, soft as velvet, delicat as an angels heart. They remind me of his voice so long ago. A witness of love silently wispering “I see you!” between those lines unspoken.


It’s getting to warm under the duvet and I stick my feet outside it and regulate the heat on the electric sheet. My cat, mon petite ami, is stretching his body in all his length, (which is quite long, his a cat after all), purring and smiling at me with his yellow, oblique eyes. His hind paws are touching my thighs, and I pet his soft ears and silky fur.

It’s nice to have company when you can’t sleep, something that at times happen frequently. I get lots of advice about which pills to pop, but I’ll rather pet my fury petite cherie and weave pretty dreams of love until the tricks of the Sandman makes my eyelids fall. And there, in the dim light of a small bedside lamp, I see the reflection of my own fierce infatuation. My common sense says no, I’m wrong! I’m not inlove with the man. I’m inlove with the idea of being inlove. But my body tells me that my reason is mistaken. It’s very confusing, and yet it isn’t.

Live, adventurous images from times gone wild flickers behind my eyelids in the darkest hours of the winter night. I see his lips against mine, his tounge, his arms around me, hands and fingers across naked skin, his body between my thighs. I enjoy every delightful, impassioned second, and I hate him for this just as often.

May he burn like a fallen angel! May his wing roast as a Kentucky fried chicken! I will cut off his hair while he’s sleeping and weave ginger lingerie that will drape around my breasts and caress me in secret places under my dress where noone can see. I’ll tattoo his toes in psychedelic colours and sacred symbols, and polish his toenails with shimmering glitter before I cut them all off with a poultry scissor, thread them on a string and wear them like a queen as a talisman of horror for my admirers to see. Maybe I shall sacrifice the heads of animals on his doorstep, and make his mistresses disappear? Or maybe not.

‘Cause it’s only a nightflight to an imaginary paradise, a fairyland in my mind tripping. I keep the illusion to close to my heart to hinder the dream from disappearing. I’ll lock it up in a blood filled chamber and let it drown slowly, but forever. And as I release myself of a good morning fart so hot it almost causes my quilt to ignite, I think to myself that it might just be okey that this love kept me wait. For what use do I have of a man who doesn’t even dare to walk up my stairs? I have places to go, things to do, people to get to know, and you know what they say those who know?

Don’t fall into the dicksand, chicas! You know; like quicksand only with dicks!

Anger issues

Dark secrets of repair kits

Where do I find the beginning of heaven? Can I find it where the swinging treetops stop, where the swallovs are dancing their airballet with the last summers litter of chickens? Is it at the highest of mountains, over the rainbow, above the next hilltop, or is it where the grass sprouts in freshly sown soil warmed by the april sun? Are we in that case allready in heaven? Is heaven barely space between planets and stars? Is heaven a physical condition like ecstacy, happiness, or satisfaction? Is heaven peace of mind? Is heaven something that is, like strawberries with cream, a delicious, home-baked piece of pie, a skydive, new driver licence, or straight A’s at the final exam? Or is heaven something that is not, like the absence of sorrow and suffering? Can I find the beginning of heaven at the end of my own personal hell? Or is heaven all of this? If heaven comes after hell; if heaven comes after all of this, what will there be after heaven? More of heaven, or nothing? Just vacuo?

I saw Nirvana in a tube of glue in my fifteenth summer. I was introduced to the dark secrets of the repair kits in the backyard of a local gas station right next door to the stadium where I for many years had jumped both high and far, and ran an endlessly number of rounds on red, brick coloured gravel. At school we had been through more than one period of awarness to the danger of drinking, smoking and heroin addiction, but never had any adult had a serious chat with us about sniffing glue.

We had plowed through books such as Hard Asphalt and We children of Banhof Zoo. I was terrified of heroin. I was terrified by the bare thought of becomming a junky or a drunk. I was scared to death to end up like Ida Halvorsen or Christiane F.. I would never have touched heroin. I still hadn’t got the taste for alcohol, but I let my self convince by the innocence of a substance anyone could buy at a sporting goods store without id or permission from home. No warning from parents nor teachers. Highly recommended by the school’s very misguided slut. We found what we searched for in that tiny tube. Some found excitement. I found Nirvana.

I traveled to the music from the rotor blades on a helicopter I couldn’t see. Somebody gave me a plastic bag with a few drops of glue, I put it against my lips and breathed in and out a couple of times. Then the helicopter arrived and took me away to the most peacefull place.

It was the most delightful of all delightful glades in the mildest of all mild forrests on the most wonderful of all wonderful summer days. The sun was shining through the crowns of birch trees and made the sky shimmer as a ballroom queen, and the leaves of the blossoming aspen was shivering of excitment in it’s summer green. The legs of the birch trees stood proud in their youth; smooth and white as snow, rough and black as charcoal. The ground was covered in soft and warm grass, uncut and disheveled, bright green and sweet. Somewhere between here and there a creek was trickling her melody accompanied by birds arguing over territory. A kitten blinked lovingly at me, and I laid down and let my self be filled with perfected peace.

Then it was over as soon as it had begun, and I was back in the shadows in the filth in that backyard next to my childhoods stadium of glory which was now a part of my past. Forgotten like my innocence was buried in the ground of an hallucination. My mind and soul was screaming for more, and my heart was filled of longing for what I would never experience, never feel again. And God knows I tried. I searched everywhere, or at least at those weird, hidden places were I most likly would find what I was longig for. In an old, abondoned truck. In a playhouse at a neighbours house. In my own bed. At school. In someones caravan. In someone else’s garage. The last place I searched was in the tower of some playground equipment in a small town in southern Germany. There I found something else. A big raven with shiny, black feathers and ancient eyes came flying over my head and landed on my left shoulder. Suddenly my search was over.

One year later I finished secondary school. I celebrated somewhere between completely wasted and comatose.

Anger issues

Anger issues

Day 40, august 24., 2017

I need change! When I woke up yesterday morning with my head resting on my not so comfortable doormat with my keys, which I couldn’t find the night before, lying on the floor two feet from my face, and the steaming fresh morning paper at my feet, I thought to my self that it’s time to change.

I’m seeing a shrink. I both adore and hate her. The last therapist I had didn’t get it. Or maybe he did. He was so scared of me that he cancelled all our appointments. Or at least that was what I thought, but as the matter of fact he wasn’t a shrink at all. He was a specialist nurse. He didn’t know what he was doing. Not in my case. That was probably why he cancelled all our appointments. I’m sure he’s a nice guy, but that wasn’t what I was there for. To meet some nice guy. The shrink I’m seeing now knows her thing. She’s not afraid of anything. That’s why I love her. She’s constantly asking me to get in touch with my feelings. I don’t want to get in touch with my feelings. That’s why I hate her. She’s asking me what I’m thinking of, and then she’s telling me to connect with my feelings. I’m thinking about beheading somebody with a handsaw, cut off every finger after breaking every joints, skin somebody alive and soaking them in ammonia, crush someones head with a baseball bat or just turn the knot on someone. Litterally. But I can’t do that. Because then I’ll end up in prison, and as a prisoner I can’t have a cat, and without a cat I’ll feel so god damn miserable. I guess that’s what they call anger issues.

I feel like being some where between totally wasted and comatose, but I don’t have time for that, because I have expectations to fulfill. I have appointments. I have to meet people. I have to smile, to hug, to make everybody laugh, even though I would rather lie on the couch with my cat sleeping on my face and drown myself in his vibrating, fury, little body and never get up ever again. I feel like being a prophet of doom, who fires off frightful prophecies and writes divine manifestos nobody understands, but I’ve been there. I’ve done that. It was exhausting, and I lost all my friends because everybody thought I was insane, but I wasn’t. I was seriously incorrectly medicated. I didn’t even need meds. What I needed was sex. Loud, sweaty, physical love and a pat on the shoulder now and then from someone who said «Just relax! You’ll be allright! You’ll survive!», but there was no one there. Everybody were gone. Every single one of my camerados were locked up. In jail. For violence. For murder. For drugs. Everyone who understood me was locked up way out of my range. It was seriously, fucking depressing! At that point I really got to feel in touch with my emotions. All by myself. All alone. Perhaps I should write a book about that. About getting in touch with my feelings. Or maybe I should just get a lobotomy and be done with it.

I want a horse, but most of all I want change. So I’ve decided to take 365 sober days. Days I’ll spend working on my emotions and experience new stuff. I did well at first, but then I messed up again. I honestly didn’t believe I would do a hole dried up year just with a snap of my fingers. It takes time to change a way of life. To get rid of bad habbits. It takes a lot of effort to learn to deal with your issues without drowning them in mood regulating subtances no matter if you buy them at the liquor store, the farmacy or at some of those slightly more sleazy parts of the open market, but I have to pull myself together. You see; I’ve signed up for a course in Japanese. I don’t have any particular purpose with it. I just saw and ad on facebook and suddenly I had signed up. I doubt that I’ll regret it. I don’t know if I can complete, but I need to clean up my act and sharpen my senses. When you fall asleep on your doormat because you can’t find your keys lying right in front of your feet, it takes a couple of days before your senses is anything near being sharp. Two days ago I embraced my doormat. From now on I’ll embrace the change!