I just read what I wrote yesterday.
I've been exceedingly angry to the point of furious only a few times in my life. When it does happen, I switch into autopilot and I don't really know what I'm doing. Except I know that when I do, it's going to be spiteful, it's going to be a spectacle and it's going to be extremely selfish. That's right, you better look at me when I'm seething in your direction.
The first time was in high school. I was feeling awful that day. We were seniors. Waiting to graduate. Sitting at rehearsal in the hall. Nobody wanted to be there. There was so much chatter and noise. The girl down the hall was howling like a drunken, tortured cat.
So I exploded. Loud enough so that everyone in the building could hear for her to shut her mouth before she found my foot in it. Enough to blow out my vocal chords. And for a split second I was so proud of myself. The reaction was intense. People came running. People were watching. I felt powerful.
And then she laughed at me. She looked at my twisted face and her posse began to cackle. My desire to be heard is never balanced by my shaking, physical presence. So I took her box of graduation announcements that were sitting innocently by, stomped out the door and looked for the closest bonfire nearby I could through them in. I don't remember much after that.
But, just as quickly it was over. That was all I had in me. I snapped back to me. Crawled into a dark corner. I'm not a fighter. I sat in the hall drifting in and out of accusations, something about me being a racist, something about being a prick, and cried until there was nothing left to come out.
Yesterday I began to feel that same kind of wrath, just a different venue. What was I angry at?
Words. Plain and simple. Curse the written word. I wish I could tell you about it. But it's not fair to right now. So I lashed at every thing in the way I could think of. You won't really find the cause of my discomfort in the words that appear there.
However, to that end, I think there is truth. I do think I'm somewhat changed from how I used to be. Before it would take me weeks, months, maybe even years as I dwell in a funk when things go awry. Today, I'm not feeling... sorry for the things I said. I'm not sad. Maybe I'm a grown up after all.
Don't get the wrong idea, I still don't think that I want to date. I've no desire to. As a friend recently advised though, I'll be sure to wipe the poison off before I kiss again.
And old, crusty men should still beware.