I scream at the dog. No reason in particular and no words of anger or hurt. Just a loud, wild, throat-breaking scream. After years of this, she doesn’t even so much as acknowledge my shout.

Sometimes we need to scream.

As a boy, I would muffle my screams into a pillow. Sitting there on my bed, I would bring the pillow to my face and just scream, yelling into it. The muffled noises never left my bedroom, they hid in that pillow and found their way back to me come nightfall as I rested my head on the plush chamber of secrets.

My brother sat there, telling me about the sadness my eyes have held since I was a little boy. Even in the pictures of me smiling, inside those eyes he saw my sadness.

I sat in my room and I screamed. Trying to force the sadness out of my eyes.

Calling me “emotional” would be an understatement. I feel my emotions so deeply, sometimes it leaves me crippled and stuck paralyzed. Sometimes it fills my eyes, welling and crashing down my cheeks as I blindly swing for the fences.

Don’t turn away, don’t turn away

Come out swinging

Come out alone

They’re in your way

But as long as you’re swinging

Strong then you’ll get by 

– The Offspring

There came an age, and subsequent rebellion, where I grew tired of screaming into the pillow.

It felt good to release. My emotions demanded more of me, as they crashed violently around inside me. Id and Ego teamed up on Super-Ego. They were tired of being forced into hiding. Tired of being muffled.

We were tired of being locked away behind a sad boy’s eyes.

So, I opened the door to my room. I walked out into the hallway. And I screamed.


I screamed louder. Every day, loud as I needed. Over the “WHAT THE FUCK”, over my super-ego.

I had spent long enough hiding my grievances from the world.

Loud, angry, noises. I screamed when I was sad. I screamed when I was happy. I screamed until my throat burned for water.

The first step in laying stake to your life is actually making a claim for it. In the understanding of the intricate need to feel free from the chains that bind you, emotionally or physically.

I am raw and ragged from screaming every day. From filing my grievances with the man upstairs. I am screaming for an angry little boy. A lost little boy. A little boy with irises ringed with sadness. I will scream because when he should have, he was too scared to.

I will scream loud for the world to hear. For birds to shift uncomfortably from branches outside my window before moving to quieter perches. My voice will be heard. No, his voice will be heard.

I scream for a confused little boy who didn’t understand why things kept happening how they did. A boy who sat on his bed clutching a pillow and screaming into it. A boy who didn’t understand being not normal was perfectly okay.

A boy, who thought being broken was the norm.

A CHILD, who hated himself for not being able to control his emotions and cope better.

I will scream for that child.

And when my throat is raw and bloody, I will scream some fucking more.

12620763_10206837945482238_1540934082_oBriton Underwood, better known as Punk Rock Papa, is a parent above all else. When he gets sick of being at their beck and call, he likes to escape to his page or site. He writes about any and everything he wants, but mainly about his twin boys or his newest addition- another boy. He also would like the world to know he has a beautiful wife, because the couch isn’t that comfy.

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