I don’t “do” rage.
Don’t expect me to.
I will never write a scathing opinion post or make a hostile comment about an opinion I don’t agree with.
Don’t misunderstand me. I get mad. Ragingly mad.
It’s a slow simmering anger. I’m eerily quiet. Not the passive aggressive, silent treatment type of quiet either. That’s for amateurs. Scary quiet. I can see fear in my children’s eyes. It’s the unpredictability. Is she going to do something? When is she going to do it? No one speaks to me. There’s a collective sigh in the room when I start breathing in and out again in a normal pattern.
You can argue that I’m repressing my anger. You’d be absolutely correct and dead wrong simultaneously. I control and mange my anger. It’s a required discipline. A skill I did not acquire overnight.
I’ve had Clinical Depression and Anxiety since I was fourteen years old. Sympathy or empathy is not required. I’m only stating a fact. It’s something I’ve learned to accept, grudgingly . I hate it. It’s a shitty deal. I have days where I’m all over the map. A crying–jumpy– paranoid– feeling rejected– I love everyone– don’t fucking talk to me–I hate you all, person. No, it’s not a good day to have lunch with me. I don’t like to wallow in it. People have much worse conditions than I do. We all find our own way to cope.
I find anger a wasted emotion. Draining, negative and soul sucking. It uses an amazing amount of energy I can channel elsewhere. When I’m in scary/quiet/angry mode, I’m looking for my elsewhere. I’m not a positive person, quite the opposite. Negativity is my “warped reality” umbrella. Something I’m trying to overcome. It’s an uphill battle. I take personal responsibility for all my actions. I hold myself accountable and answerable for the trail of crap I’ve left in my wake. I refuse to let go of my sarcasm. I’ll admit. I still need it as a cloaking device.
I admire people capable of writing ragey, ranty opinion posts. I admire the hell out of them. A concise, intelligent, logical, angry, frustrated rant is a thing of beauty. It satisfies every visceral urge known to man. It requires finesse and wit and well…balls. It doesn’t even matter if I don’t agree with a single word.
But–I’ll never write one.