this rarely rarely rarely ever happens anymore. there are a few pushbuttons left and oh my yes things get ugly. i can’t remember the last time, i’m sure it was a year or more since there was one of these escalate immediately to screamfest things and fuck if i know why i’m posting this. nice that it’s kind of quiet here.
it’s not well written. it’s not something i am happy to have written and if i could release it without clicking post, i would. it’s as appealing as rancid roadkill, as literate as ass sweat, as intelligent as lint. in short, it stinks. and gives an impression about me that i’d rather not.
for something worth reading, go read the last post. this? eh. you were warned.
is there therapy for rage management? not anger. anger, i can do anger. life gives me many opportunities to be angry, i take some of them, leave others, depending on the energy.
but rage. the pushed-button rage that makes the world go swimmy in my eyes. the dizzy hot/cold flash, the shaking, the burning adrenaline rushing up the back of my neck to spread across my scalp. this is not a choice for me, it is an electro-chemical reaction overwhelming every cell in me, and i am not my own person then.
it takes my speech centers and things come out of me, out of the clenched twisted reflex i’m possessed by, these things seem bent upon making things worse, worse for me. and it’s not like i’m gonna win an argument like this – when the ugly starts, i’m reduced to a juvenile spiteful witless ineffective mess. and the rage increases with the frustration, with the knowing i’m not making my point and the urges surface, the ‘i’ll kick your fucking ass’ attitude, which works in inverse proportions to the actual potential asskicking i might be able to do if called on it. unfortunately in the old days he would take this as a serious threat and justify beating the crap out of me, self defense doncha know. now? now he only suggests it with his mannerisms and that voice, the one he uses as a crushing tool, that one, and when that voice comes out and he’s towering over me spittle flying and go ahead motherfucker, come on, you think i’m afraid of you? i’ve never let you have it you know. and you have no idea. bet that’ll change when you’re writhing on the floor clutching those nads buddy boy. and you know what they say about kicking a man while he’s down — there’s no better time for it! makes sense. floor-level kicking, so much more efficient.
and why? well because … motherfucker uses that voice, that height, that way he holds himself in that holding back but just barely way, the combined effect is designed to resolve conflict in the same way that a bulldozer resolves a house.
and because he’s wrong. i’m right, he’s not. and he has no right. and he’s wrong. and wrong in a kneejerky illogical what the fuck are you talking about kind of way. if i remember correctly, i’m supposed to let him win these things because of how upset he gets, and i really need more ways to say oh fuck no. ugly consequences be damned, motherfucker doesn’t get to win ’cause he’s a self-righteous spittle-spewing ball of threats, veiled and otherwise, you don’t let someone win because they launch into idiot mode like they had an idiot catapult just for the occasion. oh fuck no.
oh. fuck. no. ohfuckno. idiot motherfucker. use that idiot catapult on somebody who’ll be impressed, you bastard. me i could give a flying shit in a windtunnel. (brief vision of him being sucked through a massive propeller fan. good god i hate it when that happens).
the rage is almost quiet now though there is a little residual trembling. i’ve clenched my jaw so hard and at an angle, it’s slightly misaligned and will take awhile before it goes back. i clench when i clench, no doubt about it. there are still panes of glass shattering in my periphery and knees meeting nads in my wishful thoughs, but aside from that i’m almost back normal.