When I was child being mad meant throwing temper tantrums, and as I grew into adolescence, unfortunately for me, it meant self-inflicted words of pain. I’d tell myself what an idiot I’d been, or how much I hated myself for doing something wrong or ruining my parent’s expectations. Fortunately, that only lasted a few years.
Then I grew up. In college I rarely found myself mad at any one thing or person. I take that back, I did get mad, once, at an insanely jealous roommate suffering from bouts of bi-polar disorder. Unfortunately, for me, that meant I almost got the boot from my University. Long story, but the situation ended with a sincere apology, an admission of dishonesty to academic counsel, and I think a Hallmark card and balloon. She got married four months later and for the next year and a half I prayed fervently for her new husband. End of story.
Then I grew up even more. I started, “wearing big girl bras” as my mom likes to phrase it. I got divorced (as we all know by now), and I learned how to really get pissed. I’ve never been a drinker or a smoker, so those avenues don’t suit me well at all when it comes to “blowing off steam.” I think, rather, I internalize it and then I forget about it, but, interestingly, I’m still mad. This becomes evident when a similar situation occurs in my life and “reminds” me of my madness.
Today I was pissed.
I was mad when I priced my books on the internet, $700.
I was mad that my apartments raised their pricing on the water, sewage, and trash.
I was mad that my apartment agent lady was rude.
I was mad, when after speaking with the rude apartment lady, I read on Yelp that my apartments like to charge insane “move-out” fees for freakishly clean apartments.
I was mad when I stepped in bird shit on the way to my car.
I was mad that I had to count one hundred garbanzo beans (don’t ask).
I was mad that I will soon be receiving my W-2’s only to be blindsided by my greedy ex factor.
I was mad that I had to write a check for an attorney bill that was never suppose to exist.
I was mad that I got five different texts, from five different people, containing only smiley faces and/or camels.
I was mad when the fifty millionth person asked me about my custody arrangements and travel situation and then said, “that sucks.” No shit.
I was mad when my ex called, and over speakerphone, I heard his new little baby cry in the background.
I was mad when he said “mommy” (his new wife) needs lots of rest, so I’m taking stepbrother to grandma’s house.”
Then I sat down, logged on to my computer, and do what I always do when I think I am having the worst most maddest (I know that’s not a word) day: I read this blog and this blog. Then I felt like life, as hard as it gets, is still–good. I bet sometimes Nie gets mad when she wakes up and sees her face burned off. I bet Ashley gets mad when she walks through her little one’s room and silence ensues, or visits Preslee’s grave. I bet they get mad too because anger is part of life. At times you have to deal with it, though.
And this makes me feel better too, Freud said, “Civilization began the first time an angry person cast a word instead of a rock.” Thank goodness for that caveman.
Now, I’m laughing. You can’t laugh and be angry and the same time.