After my vain attempt to be funny in my last post, I think I will stick to being my usual sourpuss self. To my own surprise, on this blog I have turned into the one thing I try desperately not to be in real life. In real life I don’t talk, much. Much less talk about myself. Much less complain. I figured out I don’t do this because I don’t want to turn into one of those people who does nothing but talk about illness, sickness or the lastest bad thing that has happened. But evidently I am that person, just not in real life (or so I like to think).
Yesterday I grabbed a plate out of the dishwasher and shattered it into smithereens by throwing it out the kitchen door on to our garden path. I felt I had to because I was seriously considering taking every single item in that dishwasher and smashing it piece by piece whilst grinning maniacally. It was a relief, for a short while. I won’t bother explaining why I did this, too complicated and irrelevant. But I will tell you that the amount of venom flowing through my veins at such a moment cannot be good for me. But it’s there.
Sometimes when I get so upset my head just fills up with the most aweful imprecations, usually for those I love. All the unspoken anger comes boiling out, not in spoken words, in this it was int he form of a broken plate. Sometimes in more than one broken plate, in slammed doors, in kicked doors, in screams of rage and some time ago I would turn it inward and hit myself.
I’m thinking of telling all those venomous thoughts to my psych. Maybe getting them out in the open will release the pressure, and I’ll realize that I’m not the evil creature that lives inside me. Possibly it’s just a timid little mouse, overcompensating for her own deficiencies.
I’ll spend the rest of the day thinking about that last sentence. It may make sense.