Edvard Munch “The Scream” 1893
I remember the time being about 8PM on a weeknight toward the end of my last semester of high school.
I lost it. I lost it hard.
Recent events had overwhelmed me to a point where I just couldn’t take it anymore:
– my parents had subversively managed to end my first real relationship with my first real girlfriend after calling her a whore and refusing to even meet her. We had been dating for about 5 months during which time my parents had never met her.
– my parents had refused to contribute toward my college education, even though college was touted in my family as the most important area of personal development a person could achieve. I couldn’t afford it without their help.
– I had recently received a speeding ticket trying to rush home to meet curfew. Now my insurance was going to go up and I could hardly afford it as it was with my minimum wage job and having to make car payments, too.
I plain lost it.
I was laying on my back on my bed and the tears just started coming and they wouldn’t stop. I started screaming. Louder and louder. Screaming as loud as I could. Pounding my fists into the bed and screaming.
After about 20 minutes my parents came into my room. My twin younger brothers were standing in the doorway. They all watched me as I lay on my bed and continued to scream. At one point when my screaming let up for a second, my father said “Are you done feeling sorry for yourself yet?” I just screamed louder. I remember one of my brothers, who were about 12 at the time, say “Maybe we should get him some help” to which my father responded “He’s just feeling sorry for himself” My entire family watched me lay on my bed and scream and pound my fist into the bed for about the next 40 minutes. After an hour of screaming and crying, I finally ran out of energy and rolled over and buried my face in the pillow. Everyone left my room and there was never another word said about what happened that night.