Warning: If you do not want to read an expletive riddled rant, then do not read this fucking post.
Today, I am angry. White hot, feeling it in the pit of my stomach, rage-filled, motherfucking angry. Angry at myself, the world and every last bastard thing and person in it. Over it all, sick of it all, sitting in my car and screaming a furious, guttural howl at it all fury.
Why am I angry? Let me count some of the ways:
Angry at myself for drinking and drinking and drinking. Angry about thinking about drinking, thinking about not drinking, reading about not drinking, listening to podcasts about not drinking.
Angry at motherfucking shit bastard depression and anxiety. So many lost days, opportunities and self worth because these twin hell holes WILL NOT GO AWAY. Angry for having to accept they are a part of me and probably always will be. Angry about the constant battle to fight against them, stay one step ahead or be smothered whole by them.
Angry with my own, looping, self defeating and self sabotaging thoughts and actions. Bored shitless with being stuck in my own head, every.fucking.day.
Angry with being a victim, acting like a victim, thinking, feeling and doing like a victim.
Angry, oh so angry that my cheating, lying, deceiving, manipulative bastard fucker man-whore ex-husband gets to enjoy a pleasant life while I do not. Furious that his 20 year younger Lolita ,glasses wearing, fucking cake school attending, naive idiot fool is going to spend the next 2 months living with Man Whore and MY CHILDREN, playing happy families. Hey Lolita, enjoy living with McBeardy fuckhead Man Whore, he’s a real catch, just ask the other three girlwomen he’s screwing behind your back. Oh, and I hope you feed him lots of cake, mountains of cake. Betcha didn’t know that the Short Legged Lying One puts on weight quicker than he can drop his pants for a mental health patient- have fun with that!
Angry that the pretentious cafe down the street has the gall and audacity to charge TEN fucking dollars for a SMOOTHIE. I feel like buying one and tipping it over the smug faced owner’s head. SEVENTEEN dollars for a bowl of soup? “It’s completely home made, the ingredients are all sourced locally” Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise your ingredients were all plucked or picked freshly this morning, from organic farms watered with pure glacier water, helicoptered from the freaking HIMALAYA. And then transported by virgin yaks to your suburban cafe. Tenderly prepared by Buddhist monks who sing soothing mantras to the vegetables as they simmer in earthen clay pots sourced from Third World orphanages run by blind paraplegics. Here, take my SEVENTEEN dollars, in fact here’s TEN more.
Oh, I could go on and on and on.
But you know what? Writing this has helped and I can feel the anger dissipating. It’s still here, but at least I no longer feel so enraged that I could pull the hair from my head. A very good thing as I suspect having a bald spot on my head might make me even more angry the next time I look in a mirror.
So. I own my anger. I allow my anger to simply be. It’s just a feeling and it will pass. In the meantime, I’m going for a run to burn off some of the lingering rage. And I’ll try hard not to set fire to the Pretentious Yak cafe down the road.