It’s not often I get angry. Oh, sure, a mild, fizzing pissed off is a fairly regular emotion around Dolceville. I’ll sometimes even stretch to a rant. But a white hot, ice cold, lock down rage is rare.
It’s a fine little line. One moment I’ll be having a perfectly good conversation on the pros and cons of my way versus the highway watching the mild fizz rise in a fairly unperturbed way. Happy that I’m faintly grown up enough to not run screaming from the confrontation. That I’m handling a little tête-à-tête without developing weepy eye syndrome (a pernicious disease which I’m prone to in frustrating times).
And then suddenly, the conversee will say something. An unexpected verbal vignette that seems to dig into the heart of what’s being unsaid. And its total shut down. Sayonara. Au revoir. Thanks for the memories. Game over.
From that point on, I’m beyond rational. I’m headin’ into injun territory. That wide barren landscape of fuck you. With a cocked gun and an unrelenting streak of viciousness. And there ain’t no point of return. There’s a way back, sure, but a different way. A way changed. A way paved with that sharp edged thing.
It’s not often. But it’s interesting, in the acrid, crisp-clear way of that moment, how much can shift just then. How many moments can collide in an irreparable way, suck down into a distilled frame. How the alchemy of all that weight can change a thing.
It’s a place hard to come back from.
Only once, a very long time ago, did I go beyond the bleak rage space into a blistering, incendiary, firestorm of fury. I understood what they said about seeing red. About forgetting yourself. I won’t go there again. But it makes me rethink myself, sometimes. That maybe the bright, happy, glass-half-full me is only a veneer. That if I’d been raised in other way or if I’d learned lessons in a different way that I’d be out of control. And what that would be like?