So I started to write this as a Facebook status, and then I thought about all the people who might read it and judge me for it. I had wanted to say that I was uncharacteristically angry today, that little things that I could usually ignore or forget are growing like those tiny foam animals that expand in a glass of water. I had wanted to say that I don’t like being angry, I’m usually not, and that in this particular moment it is making me sad that I’m so cross about everything. I wanted to say that it is totally unjust that I am sad because I’m angry because I can’t direct my anger outward at the appropriate targets. Who would, on top of everything else, judge me.
My Super Ego (and it is, by the way, magnificent) would like you all to know that there are no “appropriate targets,” that everything that is making me homicidal and bent and icky is really just a matter of my own interpretation. Everyone has a right to their own actions and opinions, it’s a free country, and if I don’t like what someone does that’s kind of my problem unless they are, perhaps, making a neat incision across my jugular vein with a box cutter. Otherwise, I can choose to react, not to react, and be totally responsible for my own state of mind without blaming other people. To do other than walk away with a sane, compassionate smile is to create drama for myself and those unfortunate enough to live in my Vortex of Doom.
When other people do certain things, it seems to me very much as if they are making a neat incision across my jugular vein with a box cutter. It really does. It feels as if they are tiny stones between my heel and my shoe on a long walk. It seems that perhaps, since I am the center of the universe, they are working together at a laboratory hidden in the hills of New Mexico on a formula that pushes every one of my buttons. They pour the green stuff, possibly “anxiety” into a big beaker with red stuff, possibly “judgment” and there is a POOF before the resulting brown sludge is pronounced ready. I think they drip it into my veins, they hide under my bed at night and whisper subliminal messages as they wait for the bag to empty through a stealthily inserted IV.
On a day like today, I feel all day that I am in the wrong. I am disappointing everyone, failing to entertain, failing to charm, failing to score so much as a point. I want to be cosseted, comforted, fixed, cajoled, heard, felt, loved, enjoyed, admired, attended, needed, and did I say fixed? I want a new drug, one that will break this spell and let me enjoy the coolness of the air against the warmth of the sun on this objectively beautiful day. I do not want to be adult, bucked up, reminded, schooled, responsible, polite, civil, rational, or mature. I just want everyone who is annoying me to fall into a dark hole where they will be forced to listen to Celine Dion 24-7 and eat nothing but gas station candy with that fake, waxy chocolate.
Maybe a good cry will help. Maybe a primal scream, a brisk walk, or a little ventilatory writing. Until then, I’m focused on that hole full of annoying people, imagining the moment when they smack their assorted heads and realize that they have Done Wrong to torment me. They will forswear their box cutters and their secret laboratory. Their collective agony will be delicious, they will burn with desire to atone, apologize, and buy me a drink. It will be just like when I was seven and I knew how sorry my parents would be when they discovered that I had DIED because they sent me to my room without dinner.
Or maybe just a good cry.