Screaming as Loud as Possible

Reconnecting with primal communication

BY DANIELLE CROOM

AAAAAAAHHHHGGGHHH!!!!

This past weekend I was given the opportunity to scream as loud as possible in a room full of people. It was an act that was part of the Open Stage series in Rarig Center’s Experimental Theater. So, a few emails and a lot of trust later, there I was. The room was pitch black, per my request. Nerves, which no amount of experience could calm, jolted through the tendons of my hands. I took a breath, tested the surface pressure of the quiet that had settled over the room, and let the scream rip through me. It consumed me, all diaphragm and despair, splintering in ways that promised a sore throat tomorrow morning. When the last of my breath left me, I let the noise ring into silence. Silence that curled out of my mouth and bound my wrists and ankles before shattering into unexpected applause. Then, I invited the crowd to join me, the darkness granting anonymity to every voice. A horrible, wonderful choir of shrieks and wails exploded, and I screamed and screamed, toying with length, rhythm, pitch, and grit. Only when I felt properly satiated did I stop. And with a meek “thank you,” I returned to my seat as the lights came on. 

To scream is to become a vessel of anguish. Yes, the anguish is mostly mine, but at its periphery, I can begin to see the collective conscious pool of misery–an ocean just waiting to be tapped into. Screaming exists outside of linear time, connecting me to every other emotional overflow from throughout my life. I was on a dark stage, but I was also driving back from work after being berated by a customer; I was having a panic attack about having a panic attack about a mundane task; I was taking the long way home to finish mourning a collapsing relationship; I was a child whose emotions overrode any half-learned regulation tactics; I was a baby who just needed to be held, fed, and loved. And screaming like I did on stage–not in response to my immediate circumstances but just because I wanted to–was a special kind of catharsis. I screamed for all the times I didn’t scream, finally releasing some of the pressure that builds up so continuously but is vented so sparingly. 

There is an art to the anguished scream, not in the sound itself but in the act. It is selfish, loud, and alarming; raising concern in the most instinctual way. To let go of hesitation and logic and replace them with noise can be difficult but so rewarding. Screaming is an instant refresher, the emotional equivalent of splashing cold water on your face. I find myself wanting to do it more and more these days. As I age into adulthood, I discover new and more complex ways to be dissatisfied. I must choose daily between being overwhelmed and being numb, or I must labor to find the middle ground. With so much complexity to behold, so many feelings stored in one body all seem to morph into anger. When I run out of words, or the patience to find the words, to describe the anguish that plagues me, there is nothing left to do but scream. Not to be heard, not to be understood, but just to feel my breath.