Rageaholic

“Get your head out of your ass before you type an email” is the first thing I thought this morning.

I know it’s not the best way to start a Friday. But neither is an annoying email dancing around the truth with big words used incorrectly and an end that promises to be open and honest, when in fact, the entire message was vague and opaque, to say the least.

You know that person.

The one who squints when he looks in the mirror.

The one who couldn’t see the writing on the wall if the words were painted with his own fingers.

The one who blames the dog when he drives a car through the front window of his own house.

The one who continues to cycle around to the same mistakes over and over and when there is no one left to blame, he blames mental health because admitting you’re a fuck up would be as hard as, well, admitting you’re a fuck up. No one wants to do that.

These people enrage me.

I’m listening to a book recommended to my friend Blendra by Zipop and it’s teaching me a lot about who I am. People like the figment of my imagination above (or is he?) really, really get under my skin.

In this book, the author taught me that those people – the ones I can’t stand to be around, can’t listen to for another second, can’t approach, can’t look at, can’t think about without being filled with rage or anxiety – are not the problem.

I. am. the. problem.

And while those people may actually be royal fuck ups, my inability to deal with them, and not go berzerko, may be something I need to work on. So that’s what I’m doing. This is just one of the steps I’m deliberately taking toward badassery.

I took that rage I felt when I read the email, swallowed the hate words I save only for him, and responded with the facts. And! It did not ruin my day. Actually, (and it’s weird to say this, but) I feel like an adult.

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