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Sometimes I think my least favorite emotion is anger, seconded only by frustration and perhaps envy, which can lead to anger but not always. Over the years, I've begun to slowly understand the metaphors scattered throughout religious texts as sociological/psychological markers regarding human behavior - warning signs if you will.
How I handle anger is not, sometimes I think, the best. Usually it's by holding it inside, with periodic vents of rage, until it boils over or bursts much like a tea-kettle. My closest friend, or rather the one whose known me the longest and therefore seen me at my ulitmate worste, has told me on occassion that she does not want to get me angry, avoids it like the plague. You are scary when you are angry, she mutters. And it's not because I hit people or do anything remotely violent, no, I get angry in much the same way my father did or does, with purebreed logic and words, a burst of screaming, ranting, then suddenly without warning cold silence. Complete and utter withdrawl. I leave the room.
There's not a whole hell of a lot that will infruriate me, usually it's a build-up of stuff, petty annoyances over time or huge injustices all at once. Often it's just built up frustration, much like the tea-kettle effect I mentioned above.
When I'm really angry, I can't type let alone speak, without trembling and crying, and looking much the fool. Until the initial thunderstorm passes.
The petty annoyances that get to me are old hurts and bruises, mostly, that never really go away. I'm not sure emotional wounds ever truly do, I think much like a deep physical cut, they leave their mark on us. I've got a scar on my left arm from a biospy of a odd skin discoloration years ago, which at the oddest times hurts. Not often, just on occassion. I think some emotional wounds are like that, when you least expect it, they hurt, a dull throbbing ache at the back of the mind, like an echo.
Been filled with anger this week, at petty things. Things that have no more importance than a fly buzzing aimlessly around your head. No matter how often you swat at it, it continues to buzz. It's not dangerous, not a bee or a mosquito or a wasp, just a fly. Yet, you feel a bit like Wile E Coyote endlessly and somewhat hopelessly chasing the road runner as you swat at the fly. I admit to an odd admiration for old Wile E. He never gave up. Even if it was in his best interest to do so. The patron saint of stubborn pig-headed souls like myself.
While at the same time, I've been tormented lately by old emotional scars, some dating back as far as 2001. Wondering if they will ever completely fade. Others dating further, to 1988. I hear echoes in my mind from those who tore at me then, faded memories, yet the voices clear as a bell in my weaker moments.
Methinks, sometimes, I frustrate myself. I'm my own worste enemy. I'm the one I wish at times I could leave behind, take a break or vacation from. But that's the ultimate irony of course, no matter where we go, there we are, right there, with ourselves. We can not run from our own memories, wounds, hang-ups, fears, anxieties, or dilemmas. All we can do is somehow find the courage to face them in all their bloody-headed gore straight on. Like a solider stares down the barrell of his own gun.
I think sometimes that living life each day, regardless of who you are or where you came from is an act of courage. It's not easy life. Nothing about it is easy. For any of us. And the choices we make are more often than not the wrong ones, making us wonder what-if we'd turned right instead of left at that last curve in the road or maybe we shouldn't have given our name to that stranger. And often life isn't so much about who we are at the moment, then who we happen to be with, even if it's no one but a blank computer screen and bunch of bloggers who read or happen upon us purely by chance.
I don't think we know how a misunderstanding or a miscommunication or a misreading of a sentence can change the course of someone else's life. Or how it may not affect them at all.
Life remains interesting to me, even at my worst moments, because it is so bloodly unpredictable. I fear my choices have lead me in the wrong direction, a series of missed hook-ups and opportunities that I can never quite unfix, but at the same time I know there's always tomorrow - much as Scarlett O'Hara infamously mutters at the end of Margret Mitchell's classic Gone With the Wind.
Today was a mix of accomplishments and failures, I'm not quite sure which matter, but as they say there's always tomorrow to undo them both.
How I handle anger is not, sometimes I think, the best. Usually it's by holding it inside, with periodic vents of rage, until it boils over or bursts much like a tea-kettle. My closest friend, or rather the one whose known me the longest and therefore seen me at my ulitmate worste, has told me on occassion that she does not want to get me angry, avoids it like the plague. You are scary when you are angry, she mutters. And it's not because I hit people or do anything remotely violent, no, I get angry in much the same way my father did or does, with purebreed logic and words, a burst of screaming, ranting, then suddenly without warning cold silence. Complete and utter withdrawl. I leave the room.
There's not a whole hell of a lot that will infruriate me, usually it's a build-up of stuff, petty annoyances over time or huge injustices all at once. Often it's just built up frustration, much like the tea-kettle effect I mentioned above.
When I'm really angry, I can't type let alone speak, without trembling and crying, and looking much the fool. Until the initial thunderstorm passes.
The petty annoyances that get to me are old hurts and bruises, mostly, that never really go away. I'm not sure emotional wounds ever truly do, I think much like a deep physical cut, they leave their mark on us. I've got a scar on my left arm from a biospy of a odd skin discoloration years ago, which at the oddest times hurts. Not often, just on occassion. I think some emotional wounds are like that, when you least expect it, they hurt, a dull throbbing ache at the back of the mind, like an echo.
Been filled with anger this week, at petty things. Things that have no more importance than a fly buzzing aimlessly around your head. No matter how often you swat at it, it continues to buzz. It's not dangerous, not a bee or a mosquito or a wasp, just a fly. Yet, you feel a bit like Wile E Coyote endlessly and somewhat hopelessly chasing the road runner as you swat at the fly. I admit to an odd admiration for old Wile E. He never gave up. Even if it was in his best interest to do so. The patron saint of stubborn pig-headed souls like myself.
While at the same time, I've been tormented lately by old emotional scars, some dating back as far as 2001. Wondering if they will ever completely fade. Others dating further, to 1988. I hear echoes in my mind from those who tore at me then, faded memories, yet the voices clear as a bell in my weaker moments.
Methinks, sometimes, I frustrate myself. I'm my own worste enemy. I'm the one I wish at times I could leave behind, take a break or vacation from. But that's the ultimate irony of course, no matter where we go, there we are, right there, with ourselves. We can not run from our own memories, wounds, hang-ups, fears, anxieties, or dilemmas. All we can do is somehow find the courage to face them in all their bloody-headed gore straight on. Like a solider stares down the barrell of his own gun.
I think sometimes that living life each day, regardless of who you are or where you came from is an act of courage. It's not easy life. Nothing about it is easy. For any of us. And the choices we make are more often than not the wrong ones, making us wonder what-if we'd turned right instead of left at that last curve in the road or maybe we shouldn't have given our name to that stranger. And often life isn't so much about who we are at the moment, then who we happen to be with, even if it's no one but a blank computer screen and bunch of bloggers who read or happen upon us purely by chance.
I don't think we know how a misunderstanding or a miscommunication or a misreading of a sentence can change the course of someone else's life. Or how it may not affect them at all.
Life remains interesting to me, even at my worst moments, because it is so bloodly unpredictable. I fear my choices have lead me in the wrong direction, a series of missed hook-ups and opportunities that I can never quite unfix, but at the same time I know there's always tomorrow - much as Scarlett O'Hara infamously mutters at the end of Margret Mitchell's classic Gone With the Wind.
Today was a mix of accomplishments and failures, I'm not quite sure which matter, but as they say there's always tomorrow to undo them both.
