Home > Rayne > It’s Personal: My Anger Problem

It’s Personal: My Anger Problem

March 2nd, 2015

Sometimes, I wish I had one of those blogs where I could just post any silly thing, and not feel like I was totally copping out.

Of course, these days, copping out and posting something stupid would be way better than what I do…which is not post.

Things are…you know that thing when you’re not necessarily unhappy, you’re just stressed the fuck out, and it feels like the whole world is against you, and no matter what you do, you get bullshit in return, so you just don’t do anything, and you still get bullshit in return, and the only reason you’re still loving life is the people and animals you spend every waking moment (and most of the sleeping ones, too, if only physically) with? That’s how things are.

I have an anger problem. Let’s just put that out there.

I mean, I’m a cranky, crazy bitch, and I rant and rave a lot, and I often sound surprised by the things I rant about, but I’m really not, I’m just pissed the fuck off that no one else seems to care about them (except the other people I know who are ranting and raving about the same things), but those things? Those things are so far removed from my anger problem that it’s laughable. In fact, when it comes right down to it, those things are a healthy way for me to release some of that anger so that I don’t eventually just pop in one quick flash like a balloon overinflated with methane next to a flame.

Though I think it would be nice to go out that way. BANG and it’s over. You don’t even know what hit you.

When I was a kid, it was acceptable behavior to crank my stereo, and thrash around in my bedroom to release some of that pent up energy (to everyone but my father, who thought it was utterly rude), but now I’m an adult, and I have responsibilities, and I’m supposed to behave like I’ve got it all together, and EVERYTHING IS AWESOME!, and yay, life, I’ve got this shit.

Ya know what? I don’t got this shit. In fact, more and more lately, I’ve got nothing. I’ve got my love and adoration for my owner, and my cats, and my friends, and the rest of the world can take a flying leap off the highest cliff with no bungie cord, or parachute, or safety net, for all I care.

Most of the things I’m actually angry about, I have no control over. The people involved are grown and have to make their own decisions, and some of them are a lot like me, so the only thing me expressing my opinion is going to do is make them want to go down the road I’m angry about even more. Of course, I wouldn’t even BE angry about their decisions if they were thinking about other people when making them, and not just shitting all over everyone in the way of what they want instead. But, as our BFF S likes to say, “Rayne, you can’t expect everyone else to be who you think they should be. People are assholes. You gotta accept that.”

I also harbor a lot of anger about my past.

I mean, who wouldn’t, right? I’ve been through a lot of bullshit (who hasn’t?), and I’ve never really allowed myself to work through that because I’m supposed to be tough and resilient. I’m supposed to bounce back from anything, remain unaffected, be on my game always.

I don’t even know where I got that idea. Society? My family? My friends? Who the fuck knows?

But my anger isn’t even so much about what happened. Shit happens. You learn from it, grow from it, and move on, whether you’re the one shitted on, or the one doing the shitting. I’m over the what.

What I’m angry about is that the people who caused most of the bullshit I went through refuse to acknowledge what they put me through. I don’t even want them to take responsibility for it. I just want them to stop fucking calling me a liar.

“Well, that’s not the way I remember it.”

Isn’t it funny when people say that?

“You held me at gun point.” “Well, that’s not the way that I remember it.”

“He ‘spanked’ me so bad that you had to make him stop.” “Well, that’s not the way that I remember it.”

“I told you I didn’t want to, but you kept going anyway.” “Well, that’s not the way that I remember it.”

I will never see most of them again. I have no idea which direction their lives took. I have no desire to confront them, or anything like that. But I can’t tell you how much I’ve lost because of their “faulty memories”. I just know that it’s a lot.

It’s hard for me to talk about these things with M. He doesn’t understand why it still affects me, why I still think about it, why I can’t just let it go. So instead of talking to him about them when I’m thinking about them, I brood for a bit and then go searching for something else to think about…something else to be angry about. Something less personal.

I don’t think I understand it, either.

It makes me feel like a failure. At life, at love, at being a slave.

I mean, if I were meant to have the things I lost, I’d still have them despite the bullshit, right?

If I wanted those things (NOT the people involved, but the lost things) as bad as I tell myself I do, I would have fought harder for them…right? At least, that’s what everyone who has no idea who I really am (or how hard I fought) tells me, anyway.

Yesterday, I saw this. And especially this one. And instead of the “YAS!” moment that so many people with mental illness had after reading that, I spent a good bit of time (while I was laying on the couch doing mostly nothing trying not to focus on the mysterious spasms and pain in my stomach) considering whether or not I really am doing my best. Can I push harder? Can I do more? Can I break out of the cycle that is my mental illness, and actually accomplish something that isn’t a clean house, or a good blow job, or a tasty meal? (Because those are the things I’m holding on to, right now, to remind me I’m useful and my existence is valid, and I’m failing miserably at the clean house part.)

Just those three questions feel like too much pressure.

Who’s holding me down? My mind, or myself?



Categories: Rayne Tags:
  1. March 2nd, 2015 at 16:20 | #1

    There are a lot of platitudes that really want to be tossed out there, because one of my issues is that I’m uncomfortable with people being hurt. I want to offer details of my own story and lessons I’ve learned, but that’s because I want to deal with my pain, and not yours. Instead, for now, I’ll offer this, and know it isn’t going to be enough, but maybe it will be something.

    I believe you. You aren’t a liar. Every. Fucking. Word. Is. True. Periodendofstory.

  2. March 2nd, 2015 at 18:39 | #2

    @ Tomio Hall-Black Thank you. Truly.

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