Tag Archives: anger

Honest Fight

19 Jan

There should be a way to fight this, “dirty. ”

…There should be a mental equivalent of brass-knuckle-packin’ fisticuffs you can haul out…and hair you can pull. You ought to be able to scratch it’s mutherfucking eyes out, bare-handed. You should be able to draw and see blood, to leave a wound with a scar that you can visualize later at other shitty times,  so you can point at it and say: “See?!  Kicked your ass that time, so I can damn-well do it again! ”

…If there was a way to fight this shit, dirty. I’d have long since done it by now. 

 …It can’t possibly be more taxing on my body than the only way I have to fight it: which is this absolutely exhausting step-by-step process…which besides the drudgery of “sameness, ” costs more and more frustration and stress with less and less yield. Because my brain is not playing fair. 

…So, IT can fight dirty as hell…and I’m stuck with throwing walks and meditation at it, feeling like some chumped up asshole whose just letting the inmates run the asylum from plays of sheer overpowering insistence. 

I don’t like losing. I don’t like being tied and strapped up in a helpless configuration of a straight jacket that my brain from time to time gets thrown into. I am in one right now…truth-told: I have been for a while. I am exhausted from fighting it. I keep waiting to find the combo out, and can’t. I’m doing all the “right” things,  fighting cleanly by all the “right” rules. 

…And it all means dick. 

It is beating the shit out of me. 

…And I have no choice…none whatsoever…but to let it. 

And it makes me mutherfucking FURIOUS. 

I am exhausted. I can’t work any harder than I am. I can’t screw a pretend smile and positive outlook on my face any more hours a day than this. I am losing my sense of personal strength as I try to temper my temper…my ONLY available asset I feel confidence in. I want to let the Hulk out and do a shit ton of damage…to show my brain that my will and fight IS stronger than “it.”

…And while that would feel absolutely AMAZING for a while: liberating and ass-kicking and power -infusing…I know that you cannot strong-arm this shit to “win. ” It is a lie that makes you feel good for a time..but it ends up costing so much more in the end. 

Like: your sanity. In full. 

…My rage right now is so great, that to unleash and feed it would be to throw a fifth of whiskey down it’s throat, tear off all it’s clothes, and go on a wild ride of nights full of random, wild, fuck-you, abandon. 

…Which is all fun and games and liberation. Until you wake up alone, in some other person’s bed you don’t know, and can’t remember what the hell even happened. 

My rage at my mental illness is exactly like an alcoholic blackout binge. 

…How else am I supposed to fight it? How else do I feel like I have any power at all?  When every “good for me” weapon is so supposedly “peaceful” and “enlightening ” and so very often feels totally and completely ill equipped for the monster fight it wakes up to…every day now for quite some time. 

I am tired of fighting an honest fight. 

I am tired of taking long walks every day in fresh air. 

I am tired of trying to refocus and meditate. 

I am tired of pretending I’m not scared about 11,000 ordinary things on any given day. 

I am tired of trying to spin my mental nightmares into something funny to laugh at in public, as they continue to privately terrify me. 

You are my people. This is this fucking blog’s purpose. I am standing here saying,  “I know I’m not alone. There are a lot of us. And we are all fighting and all tired.”

I know that. 

In the same “deep-truth” place where I also know that in some nondescript amount of time…just from out of nowhere, I will turn a corner…my brain will settle down a bit, and some semblance of peace (or at least far less struggle)  will come again. 

…But that time is not now. And while I fight on, I needed to stand up in the room and say:

It’s bad times. 

I am frustrated. 

I am very angry. 

I am tired. 

I am still FUCKING IN HERE. 

~D

That Was Why.

1 Apr

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Stick with me a second here…

So, I believe in God. 

…I don’t consider myself a “religious” person, but rather “a person of faith.” The difference of that I take as meaning: I am pro-rights and against hate groups masquerading under religious dogma.

…Thing is: Sure I was raised in it, but as an adult, when my politics began to swing much more central, and I began to re-evaluate a lot of the core-values I was raised with, I realized that no matter what,  I needed God. For me, he is unquestionable.  He doesn’t have to answer to any one specific religion, doesn’t care about prejudices or hierarchy, and probl’y gets as annoyed and pissed off as Abraham Lincoln, when people use erroneous  quotes he’s supposedly said, out of context, and slobbers them all over the air waves in defense of some new horrible-racist-holy-war-political-scheme they’ve come up with next.

For me: God is a higher power, who helps carry the burdens of life.  God is the being in the wind who will listen to endless hopes and sorrows, so you aren’t just flinging them to ether of “no one gives a shit.” And also, (lets be real here) God is someone I can point to when I’m pissed off at the world and say, “Well?! You’re God! So FIX IT!”

…And when God doesn’t “fix it,” I am not one of those people who takes it lying down.  I stand up and voice my particular thoughts on that, pretty distinctly.  But then, that’s just how my relationship with God roles.  I can “pretend” to be deferential about it all, and say “you know best” but if I don’t believe it, he already knows, so what’s the point of trying to bullshit him?  My God knows me. And He’s all for freedom of speech…is anti-Dictatorship…thinks a woman’s place IS to speak up…and isn’t going to smite or punish me for the way I was made. Because God built me this way.

…So when something truly horrible happens, and I decided he’s prob’ly crossed a line, and I tell him that, we both know there is no answer on earth that will possibly sooth or excuse that horrible thing for me. Frankly, the whole “human nature and freedom of choice” bit explaining why wars and genocides go on and on, is not an appropriate answer to innocent lives lost. Not when you’re God and can stop it at any moment. Plagues and cancers will never come under “justifiable suffering” for me either. Sudden accidents, weather-disaster-titled “acts of God,” and the like, are also on my list.

…And the list grows, the older I get. I try not to let it eat at me too much, but when something happens on the list which makes it PERSONAL, it becomes quite hard to just leave it be.

A little over a year ago, I had a good yelling at God for just one of those things. I didn’t understand. The illness was basic. The victim was a strong, grown man in his prime. He was a good man. Not just how people throw the word around…but a genuinely GOOD MAN. Hundreds and hundreds of people coming from all over, assured us of that. And when he died, leaving a young special-needs son behind, a whole hell of a lot of people (assuredly not just me) screamed a big, fat, hairy ass: “WHY?!?!?!?” at whatever deity they believed in. And like sometimes happens, ZERO justifiable response was given. 

…So for over a year, I’ve been mad. At God.  We’ve still been speaking and all…but that thing has been there…always in the corner.  And I thought there was just no way there would ever be a justified explanation for any of it.

Until today.

This morning, the 115th anniversary of my Great Grandma Nana’s Birthday, Uncle Big Guy’s son passed away. 

While we all knew his failing health was bringing this to an inevitable point of reckoning, and it would mean an end of so much pain and ongoing medical tortures, the concept of a thing is so different from the end of it.  And once the end came, the preparation I thought was at hand, changed.

…Because today, Nana and all her giant family of sisters and brothers and aunts and parents…,my Gram and Gramps…and Uncle Big Guy were just beginning to celebrate…in good Irish style up there… when little Nick just walked into the room.

Knowing Big Guy is up there in joy receiving his son, instead of here: totally, emotionally obliterated: losing him, changes so much about that day…over a year ago.

… I guess what I’m saying is:

“Okay, God. That was why.”

~D

Enuf

22 Apr

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A two-week build up in the office, just dun popped it’s lid today.  I thought it was all just about last week’s blood moon weirdness, but this week proves that, no…people are just giant dicks.

…As if I need reminding. I work with them every day.

Silly me, I just assumed the build up was a bubble of assholeism hailing from the full-moon crazies that I’ve come to expect when one happens. Never mind happening across several days’ time.  But this week (and it’s only Tuesday) is trying to “win” last week in outbursts, inarticulate screamings, threats, order errors, miscodings, useless communication attempts, and physically impossible requirements being thrown at us…and that is only from Corporate.  Lets not even begin on how many pissy, high-maintenance, self-entitled, elitist asshole customers (insisting they are our only customer and the exception to every rule) also added to the already overwhelming mix.

…Which would be considerably less intense if say other people were in the damn office helping.  But The WHS Pimp is on site visits and product runs, and The Gnome is out at least once per day at prenatal appointments already racked into the dozens this month for inexplicable amounts of time at any given part of the day.

…So it’s just me.

Dealing with all this rainstorm of shit, while the orders are flooding in…reallocating schedules, correcting customer service fuck ups, talking down asshole screamers for a myriad of apparent reasons, booking jobs, running reports, getting payroll in, babysitting the grown men who work for us, conducting road show reminders and Canadian product shipments, prepping for our Alaska project, placing ads, and trying to hire more builders.

…This shit is INSANE. 

I am mentally exhausted and it isn’t even May yet. 

…Right now, I am NOT doing the slotted callbacks on my roster…just so I can just fucking breathe here…at my desk…for fifteen-consecutive-minutes, and blow this shit out on my tablet. 

Just get it out!

Out!

Out! 

…Before I work myself up so high, I bash my fist into the sidewall of that bank of filing cabinets over there.

I’m pretty sure my fist will survive just fine…but it took me three years to replace the hand-me-down bastards I inherited from the last Boss, with only two working drawers per piece…and frankly I just don’t want to have to deal with that again.

…It’d be “just another fucking thing.”

…And I’ve obviously got plenty to deal with as it is.

(giant intake of breath…knuckle crack, knuckle crack…neck swivel til it pops)

Okay.

Back to the pit.

“Fuck you, Tuesday…!!!!!! FUUUCK YOOOOOOU!!!”

…Right.  I’m going back in…

~D

I Will Mutton Chop Your Ass!

19 Aug

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First of all, it is important to note that the WHS Pimp has Muttons.

…Not the kind of exaggerated sideburn that Elvis rocked in the ’70’s.  The “old school” kind of muttons, that your Great Grandpappy rocked in like the Civil War.

His muttons mean biz’ness

…They take up nearly all his cheeks, bushing out in varying lengths depending on the season, a careful and precise trim to accent the jaw line below, with a 5 o’clock shadow on upper lip and chin, in between. In short, if you went about three days past “Wolverine,” but kept it manicured, you’d just about nail it.

Now, I dunno if you realize this, but it takes a face to pull that off.  Your average dude can’t just yank this one outta his back pocket and saunter down main street while rockin’ it. It takes a certain je ne sais quoi…a generous amount of mountain-man meet old timey gravitas.  A face that tells a history.  It takes someone with an intriguing demeanor, who looks like they could go from “jolly” to “kill a man,” in almost nothing flat.

…Like a Hell’s Angel on a “Toys for Tots” run.

This, is the WHS Pimp.

…And though by “casting type” he fulfills all the above-said requirements, the dude is one of the funniest, easiest going humans…in the world.  So accomidating, and such the “good guy” that he (like most “good guys”) consistently gets fucked for it, (in all the wrong ways), by the people he stands by and bends over backwards to help, the most.

…Namely: Boss n’ the Builder Bunnies.

WHS Pimp, is the kind of dude that will take shit n’ make gold with it, for reasons surpassing understanding.  (While I just throw it back at people, like a primate in a cage.)

…And today…the poo flew.

It flew big time.

…From three hours BEFORE the office opened, until the MOMENT it closed.

Today was the kind of day where NOTHING goes right.  Weekend contractor accidents screwed up weeks of schedules, with people now in casts…already booked up a month in advance, road shows backed up in Customer Service, Shipping fucked up container load deliveries, Inventory reallocated our own stock to other branches without asking, Contractors went MIA, and customers and Corporate stormed with screaming freak-outs, as we were on the phones doing our best to adjust the schedules accordingly.

…By nine o’clock, we had blown through an entire pot of coffee and felt like we’d already been at the day for 15 hours.  By ten, we were volunteering to swap departmental homicides and make it look like an accident. By ten-thirty, we were making suicide packs.   

…And then, something happened that in over a year of knowing WHS Pimp, I have never seen.  Not even once.

(…And you must understand, we’ve seen about every “low” that either one of us could possibly have.  Because this is the kind of place which brings out the absolute, psychotically, pissed-off, ridiculously worst in EVERYBODY.)

…But, in ALL of that time…

…With ALL of  the things I have seen…

…Through ALL of the shit-storms…

…I had never witnessed WHS Pimp bust out into “Wolverine.”

Until today.

It took roughly three hours of non-stop, antagonism from Corporate, Traffic, Customers, Boss and non-stop phones and emails to bring him to the brink, the absolute edge of the precipice…when then: the wrong Contractor, picked the wrong time, to go “Build a Bitch” in his office.

…Not an irregularity.  It’s what this guy routinely does.   And what’s more, what he does EVERY Monday, while WHS is busy loading him up for his full week of building. This has never changed.  No one expected it ever would.  But today…today, this Builder Bunny had picked the wrong day to play his “pitty me” record.

Suddenly, with a growling BOOM, the office just beside me, went off like a hydrogen bomb.

…And being as it was Monday, and being as it was that same dick head complaining about the same things…being as we were swamped with phone calls that just never ceased, and Boss was (again) MIA, and people were literally waiting in LINE to scream at us some more, for things we had zero power to control.  Being, as it was the first time, after over a YEAR of goddamn infuriating accommodations, making gold out of shit being thrown at him, for the zillionth time…

…The satisfaction of sitting, in total silence, muting incoming phone calls, and listening to the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius, just there beside me…aimed at full force on this guy, was about the goodest thing to happen within those office walls since…oh…since the invention of “ever.”

It was a fury.  It was non-negotiable.  It was terrifying.  It was something never witnessed from him before. Aimed at a person, who had WELL earned it, with interest payments, going back across at least 16 months of time.

It was…

Hawt.

As hell.

…In that so thoroughly enjoyable, “seeing-karma-come-uppance-at last” kind of way, that mostly only happens in movies.

So, I shut up, and just enjoyed it.

…And the Builder Bunny eventually exited (as dismissed to, in no uncertain terms.)

…And I continued on with my paperwork,  and answered a few more screaming phone calls, yet managed strangely enough, to smile all throughout.

After a while, WHS Pimp emerged from his cave, a bit of growl left, but not much. And I looked up.

WHS Pimp: Sorry ’bout that.

Me: –Nope.

WHS Pimp: Weren’t on a customer call I hope.

Me: –Uh uh.

WHS Pimp: So, we might have another issue to deal with.

Me: –Kay.

WHS Pimp: Down another Contractor, could be.

Me: –Right.

WHS Pimp: But I got an idea for cover.

Me: –Kay.

WHS Pimp: I’m just gonna sit here for a bit and cool off…

Me: –Right.

WHS Pimp: Then maybe see…

Me: –Uh huh.

WHS Pimp: So, we’re on the same page, then.

(Long beat.)

WHS Pimp: So.  Anyway.  Yeah.

(He turns to exit back into his office.)

Me: Mad-Fucking-Awesome-Unbelievable. 

(He stops.)

WHS Pimp: Boss is gonna freak.

Me: Yep.

WHS Pimp: Then, what?

Me: He’ll get over it.  And ass-hat over there with either build or not.  The world doesn’t end.

WHS Pimp: Kay.

(He goes back to his desk . It’s quiet for a bit.)

Me: (Hollaring from my office.) Freakin.’ Awesome. You’re my hero, man!

(From the other office, a very slight chuckle can be heard.  As if: he knows it.)

~D

Point Me To A Boxing Ring, & Place Your Bets

10 Jun

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I’m pissed.

…Not pissed as in “drunk” (yet)…but pissed as in “holy reign of terror.”

…It is 100% fueled by frustration.  Frustration in a field issue, I only rather recently overcame to begin with.  So this is pissed over an old wound being re-administered for the same reasons, in a different region.

The region is immaterial. 

This is still a compound fracture of nerve-temper being fucked with.

Which isn’t good.

It’s not good in my head.  Not good on a sunny day.  Not good with a week of work still ahead, and shows to open and bills to pay, and all the things that go with being a grown-up.

What I want right now, is a goblet of whiskey, certain pictures tacked on a wall, and some butcher knives for aiming practice. 

…No it’s not.  Why lie?  What I WANT is an explosive confrontation that leaves flames and general carnage in BBQ’d after-wake.

…What I have, instead, is a bottle of wine and plans to watch a super blast-your-fucking-ears-out action movie.

I am hoping the explosions help eradicate the rage.

…And as for the grape in lieu of grain: I learned long ago not to feed the Hulk beast with the hard stuff.  It only makes him Hulkier. 

Technically speaking, the wine isn’t practiced medical procedure either.  In fact, they frown on it.  I know, having been in therapy.  But if I’m not aloud to break things, or yell a lot…(and I refuse to take a Xanax)…then this is my deal breaker, people.

Me: and this bottled vineyard.

Much like morphine, it does absolutely nothing at fixing the actual problem, but does (if given in heavy enough dosage) keep you absolutely from even giving a flying fuck.

…Which, given the time crunch, day of week, and mental obstructions, is about the best I can hope for at the moment.

So: Go Me!

I will drink this fucking fermented grape juice, STUPID, and unnecessarily blast my TV sound system in something supremely obnoxious, and try my damndest to intoxicate the living-a-shit out of my current situation so that at some point tonight, I will be not-pissed-off-enough to actually sleep.

How the hell I deal with it all again tomorrow, is of course, an entirely other deal.

Suggestions are welcome.

…But only if they are artfully retaliatory, deliciously devilish, or painfully pointed in overall plot and procedure.

I have zero patience for reasonable, responsible, resolutions at the moment. 

Thank you.

~D

For The Oscar

24 Feb

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This one is a last minute post to m’peeps who won tonight. (As seen in tape delay with a bevy of friends.)

…Of course, we knew Adele would win, that was never a question up for debate with real people…of which I am proud and roared loudly upon acceptance speech.  In the mean time though, can we get a “hollah” for Shirely Bassey at 110, singing with the same chutzpah and vibrato as her original self a zillion years ago?

…Also, I’d like to openly shed a tear for Streisand’s Hamlish tribute (the same year I saw him live at the Seattle Symphony), and get an “Amen” for Annie Hathaway’s Best Supporting win.

…My only major upset for the night was effing Jennifer Lawrence, who at age twelve has absolutley no reason to be winning an Best Actress catagory Oscar when people like Kate Winslet had to spend over a decade and six nominations to finally win…especially when going up against Juilliard-trained Jessica Chastain and her hotel room of mugshots and engrossing meta homework on “Zero Dark Thirty” like a fucking GROWN UP actor.

…But I’m not bitter or anything.

Congrats to m’peeps, 12 of whom won of the ones I wished to…which ain’t bad, when you consider how political Hollywood is.

…Also, Charliz Theron should keep the hair, Seth MacFarlan should be my other boyfriend, Catherine Zeta-Jones is a physical wizard, Daniel Radcliffe, should always randomly Broadway-dance, George Clooney still makes the best Cary Grant,  Daniel Day-Lewis should maybe be retired from award-winning…just to be fair…and Les Mis peeps were all on the same stage at the same time, singing…and it was of awesome. 

…So there.

Until tomorrow:

~D

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