Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows
I got in a fight with a six feet wooden privacy fence today. I’m a short kid. I’m 5 feet 5 on a really good day. But, when I’m mad–that moss-ridden wood planks got nuthin on me. I was talking on the phone–a maddening conversation that consisted of my running ’round and ’round in my hamster wheel, never accomplishing jack shit. The only thing I have to show for that hour long discussion are my battle wounds and Jason’s Deli in mah belly.
I used to have anger problems growing up. I took everything so seriously back then. I was a star athlete and scholar. If I got a ‘B’ on an assignment I’d label myself a failure. If I missed a shot in a basketball game, I’d punish myself for it when I got home. My mood has always been unstable and was capable of elevating from 0-60 in milliseconds. I’ve thrown basketballs and other miscellaneous items at very high velocities out of frustration, punched doors, walls, cars, floors, and even my own face many times. But, I’ve curbed that behavior.
I now am able to calm myself down quickly. I have learned to see the humorous side of life, where I tend to never get angry or upset–and rather just laugh about whatever trouble life brings me.
Recently it’s been different. I’m running on fumes here. I’ve lost all my spunk, all my fight, all my energy for handling these ups and downs. Gutted completely and struggling to breathe at every moment.
Now if a bad thing happens–I cannot deal it with it properly and my anger escalates to an uncontrollable level. It’s frightening even me. Why? Because clearly I have caused harm to myself–some of it irreparable when my mood fluctuates to such a degree. I would never hurt someone else, but my own body is in danger. Not to mention my sanity.
The worrisome part is that in the past four years most of my trouble has stemmed from depression. When deep within the throes of despair my ability to control my rationality lessens significantly. I remember a particular episode two years ago that involved my breaking a wine glass and using the shards to cut deep within the flesh upon my cheek. I would stop cutting when blood appeared. Just lots of little shallow scratches. I did not want to mar myself permanently, but rather was hoping to make the disfiguration of my mind and my soul more promient on my facade. Crazy. Yes. I never told anyone what happened for fear of commitment of some sort. People at work assumed I had been in a fight. I told my family something about a biking accident. It wasn’t until recently I have opened up about that.
But, since July these episodes have become more common, frequent and severe. I even threw my guitar across my friend’s backyard. MY GUITAR.
I’ve cut my upper right leg up enough to where I will always have five deep real scars. The tools used? Razors, scissors and a knife. My right shoulder was dug into with a piece of glass–deep enough where stitches should have been utilized. That moment of weakness will forever be emblazoned upon my upper arm.
The other week I threw my cell phone–full speed–baseball style into the wall of my bedroom. The area of the house that is supposed to be my peaceful sanctuary has been ruined with these memories of distress and unhappiness. That and now my phone has brain damage. Le sigh.
And today–nothing too serious. Some cut knuckles and a sliced ankle from a misjudged kick.
No one should ever feel this way. I am a pacifist at heart. I am in love with love and just want the world to be peaceful and full of rainbows, kittens and snuggles. Because I know that when I am most content in life it’s when my heart is warm and filled to the absolute brim with love. I do the best I can to make people feel appreciated, special and important any chance I can. I’m quick to compliment, but it’s never forced or out of any necessity. I just say what I feel. I want people to know what they mean to me, and that they matter a great deal. If I have called you a friend and extended that most exclusive of invitations–I would undoubtedly take a bullet for you. I am loyal. I am going to defend you to the death. And will always have your back.
But, of course, I’m very picky about my friends. You can’t be a bad person with lax morals and expect me to wrap my arms around you in friendship. Fuck that. I select people based on their ability to improve me as an individual, to influence me in a positive way, to make me grow and develop and change for the better–to open my eyes to new ideas and concepts and to expand my idea of what life is all about.
I am never content to hang around people for the sake of company. I want to learn every day. I want to be entertained, but in a productive way. I have grown up so much in the past two months and know that as I am right now–I am a terrific human being with the potential to do amazing things. I have a lot of maturing to do. But, I feel that I am lightyears ahead of some people who have actually achieved more in society’s eyes. I guess in lieu of earning degrees or advancing my career, I have concentrated on improving myself. It seems sensical to believe that if I better my soul and my internal persona than I will be more prepared for excelling in other areas of life. That a domino effect would undoubtedly ensue. A logical chain of events, if you will.
I am becoming much more philosophical in my self-prescribed isolation. I’m reading a lot. I’m studying the dynamics of relationships, both intimate and platonic. I’m adopting an almost out-of-body objective opinion of what makes up my mind and body. I pick apart my flaws and my imperfections. I analyze them and am able to pinpoint them whenever I am in the process of making a mistake. I see the areas that I need to concentrate on when fixing myself up.
And this is all progress for me. I know I’m not perfect, but I am racking up my karma points right now. I am making damn sure that I don’t fuck up. I am doing the best I can to do everything textbook perfect. And hoping that that eliminates the negative ju-ju from my life and lets in only good positive influences.
I’m working on it. And that’s all anyone can ever expect for an emotionally drained, bloodied, dumbass, goofy kid of 23. Now back to my marathon of “Real Housewives of Atlanta.”