Monthly Archives: February 2017

Temper

A bad temper is an interesting phrase.  What does it mean?  That a person is a little testy, inclined to fly off the handle with little provocation – or is that short-tempered?  Have a google around, in the online dictionaries if you fancy it.  I did.  I bad temper is not what I have.

Rage.  I have rage.  I am hijacked by rage.  So rarely does this happen that I had very nearly forgotten a) that I have it and b) what it feels like.

Today I had rage.  Rage over nothing and everything.  It felt like being possessed.  I felt like the veins in my temples and in the middle of my head forehead were going to explode.  I shook.  My face went puce.  I was Henry VIII.  Rage is a terrible, ugly thing.  The dog went straight to his bed and looked alarmed.  The sight of that alone, made want to stop, but rage is a flooding of chemicals through the body and whilst it can be contained i.e. you don’t actually put the physicality into it, it takes every part of your physicality not to.  Does that make sense?  Let me try again.  Holding in the violence of the rage, is a violent and exhausting act upon yourself.

Today I was unable to withhold the force I felt inside entirely.  At some point, as I was yelling, literally yelling, I smashed my hands hard down onto a wooden surface.

Anyone who saw me now would never know I had ‘lost my temper’ earlier – such a mild expression for a tumultous tornado of feelings.  But.

I know.

The dog knows.

My hand and wrist and shoulder knows.

My right temple, knows.

What a thing a rage is, but there is no sympathy for the rager.  I might type, nor should there be.  I might not.  There should be sympathy for those unfortunate enough to witness it.  Sympathy and tea and a friendly arm.  How one should treat the rager is less obvious.  If I were in prison I would no doubt be down the SHU, perhaps with a sedative shot in my backside for good measure.  If I had caused harm or damage (I did not) perhaps the police would arrest me (that’s never happened either, but I’ve come close).  Within this domestic situation, the rager was left, not unlike a toddler, to get on with it.  That’s not always been my experience.  Sometimes my rage provoked another person’s, but not always.  Anyway that was a long time ago.

The dog is sitting next to me, with no apparent hard feelings.

I haven’t raged like that in years.  I threw a washing basket 4 or 5 years ago and have slammed a few door, but that was nothing in comparison.  That was a bad temper.  Entirely different from full on rage.

I am a woman.  Don’t women (in the stereotypes) cry?  I am a woman and I have the capacity to rage, completely sober and straight having just come back from the fucking Co-op, like a wounded bull in the corrida.  I am nearly 50.  Imagine the spectacle as I age – actually don’t.

It’s like an emotional storm, a total weather bomb, and I have no idea where the hell it came from.  No point watching the forecast, no hurricanes here.

Jesus.

 

It snows

I should be in South Africa, but I am here.

I should be in Devon, but I am here.

I should be anywhere, but I am here.

And it snows.

And I am here.

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