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Truths

My Head Is On Fire

Half way through your left turn is not the time to flick on your turn signal. I just thought I’d put that out there.

If you don’t know me, which mostly likely you don’t, I am a rageaholic. I don’t mean to be, and I’m certainly not bent on making people’s lives miserable, but my fuse is about .000001 millimeters thick. I’m combustible, I’m flammable, I implode, I explode, any kind of ‘plode’ and ‘ible’ you can think of, I’m it. It sounds horrible saying I enjoy my anger but I would be a liar if I said I didn’t. It’s an amazing way to take the weight of the world off your shoulders for a moment. It even erases my anxiety. It’s a miracle cure.

Until someone gets hurt, or offended, and then I calm down and realize how ignorant I’ve acted.

When the lady at the four way stop today cut me off I wanted to rip my steering wheel off and shove it in her mouth, then take the stick on the blinker she obviously doesn’t use and . . . well, I can feel myself getting worked up again so I’ll stop. But the audacity she had: oh, after I cut you off, I’m going to turn my blinker on and pretend like I didn’t fuck up. She didn’t even give a wave. Like come on, at least acknowledge your stupidity.

And here I sit talking like I’ve never forgot to turn on my turn signal.

That’s the main problem for us rageaholics; we forget everything else around us, including ourselves, when we’re pissed off and that’s why it’s such a destructive habit. I’ve chased people down the road before (yes, I was that ridiculous at one point) and I’ve pulled over to the curb behind this other woman and stepped halfway out my car ready to fuck shit up–she’d started it though. I was trying to let her go ahead of me and we did that “no you go, no; you go” back and forth thing. I laughed at it and eventually waved her through. She scowled and flipped me off. So I got on her ass, pulled my car over when she did, stepped out and said “you flip me off, bitch? Get out of your car!” She screeched off and I returned to my vehicle, livid.

Someone Shot A Photograph Of Me That Day.

Yes, I am a woman and yes, I do get angry, and yes, I have gotten into fights. I wasn’t raised in the ghetto but I was raised by a parent who lived through ghetto after ghetto and he instilled his mindset in me; which, for where I live currently, is more hurtful than helpful.

Not that there isn’t crime here. I remember walking home from high school with my friend and some man shouting at a car on the road. The car turned around and the man yanked out a silver gun. I’m a bit of a freak and hadn’t seen it was a gun at first so I stood there staring, squinting against the sun really, intrigued by his bravado. Then I noticed it was a weapon, a very deadly weapon, and my friend running down the street. I followed, reluctantly. It’s not that I wanted to get shot or see anyone get shot but for some reason the scene really did capture my interest rather than instill the same fear it did in my friend.

But I know the way I act in my car and the amount of holes I’ve put in my door and my walls with my fist, and the amount of objects I’ve destroyed is unacceptable behavior. Not only for the people around me, but for myself. I act this way behind closed doors the majority of the time (aside from my road rage) and because of it, the only thing people really see are the holes and the dents and the broken objects. Then they ask “what happened?” And I can say, “Oh, I can’t remember”, then I make a joke, and then it’s like it never happened.

In a way, I’m in the closet about my mentality and I think that’s part of the reason I started this blog. Being in the closet sucks: It’s all cramped and there’s a bunch of shit drowning me and sucking what little bit of motivation I have left. I can’t always punch holes in something and when I can’t, I internalize the feeling and there it festers. I read somewhere that the feeling of extreme irritation is just as prominent and important as the act of being visibly irritated. I believe it. I’ve become an expert at masquerading by my own volition. What a stupid choice.

Even as I type all this I can feel myself getting agitated by the sound of my keyboard’s keys, by the cars outside, by the thought of Microsoft ripping me off ten damn dollars for a game (I’ll take that shit to the supreme court if I have to; it’s the principle of the matter damnit), by the noise coming through my phone, by the sound of my own words, all the energy and effort I have to use just to project my voice in a normal tone to keep the other end of the line from knowing how thoroughly fucking amped I am. I know if I let people see this side of me on the daily basis that it is, they won’t put up with it. I do it for their protection. I joke so much they don’t take anything I say seriously anymore.

I made it that way. I’m fully aware of this fact.

It’s self destructive to implode and explode with such repetition. If you do this, I’d suggest taking some deep breaths and reevaluating your life. I know I am.

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About AlishiaDee (378 Articles)
Alishia D. is a blogger, a beginning novelist, and a counselor at 2nd Story Peer Respite house where diagnostic labels and the culture of mental health is long forgotten. She's a mental health peer who has bounced through as many labels as she has doctors, and enjoys being sarcastic when she can. She also hates writing in 3rd person.

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