Anger’s Target.

Jannnney says that I’ve been depressed since she’s known me. Is this true? Have I been depressed this entire time, just trying to hide it as much as possible? That’s a hard pill to swallow. Because if I’ve been depressed for as long as I’ve known her, then that means I’ve been depressed for at least the past five years. Just varying degrees of expression. It comes up so often, doesn’t it?

Well, that’s just not something I should think about too much. So what if I’m depressed? Let’s be honest: If this is depression, this isn’t all that bad. What’s dragging me down has nothing to do with depression, it’s other things. Depression is just the end result. I think.

I remember hearing the phrase once, “Depression is anger without enthusiasm.” Which begs the question: Anger at what? Is depression a form of self-mutilation? I wouldn’t be opposed to agreeing. As I work through my issues and free myself from thinking there’s something wrong with me, brick by brick, the weights feel freed from myself. I accept that there are things I do, and I learn how to deal with them. And more importantly, there are no flaws, just parts of myself I’m not too fond of.

Anger. Anger in me seems to come out in spurts. At the most random of moments. It seems to express itself when I feel cornered, when I have no other defense left but to lash out like a cat that has nowhere left to run. I am just a pussy on the inside. I love affection and attention. But fuck with me and GODDAMNIT I’LL BITE YOU. : D

I have a zero to sixty anger reaction time with my dad. It’s not so much anything he specifically says, but it’s a lifetime of everything he’s ever done and said to me. He is my personal antithesis. That’s just how it’s happened. I grew up trying to be everything he isn’t. And here I am, trying to make consistent a life based on contradiction. Cliff knows my tendency toward seeming contradiction all too well. I would have rather make no sense than sound anything like my old man.

No mere paragraph than sort though the kind of therapy I need for him. It’s quite strange, too. I was never beaten as a child. I was never outright told I’m a bad person. My mom was the one that spanked me. My mom was the one that disciplined us. My mom pretty much ran the household. And that guy who lived with us? We were happier when he wasn’t around. Respect? You want me to respect you now? Why the fuck should I? Why should I have to be the bigger man? I may be twenty-one, but you’re still the adult in this relationsip. Why am I the one that has to sort through a lifetime of psychological confusion?

But, that’s the way it is. We’ll never see eye to eye. And, bluntly, I’m smarter than him. He never listened to me. Well, whatever. I guess I will have to be the bigger person. Put on a facade, do a dance for him. But, only to be polite. To be civil. This is my life and I don’t give a shit what he thinks. He is the last person I will GOTO for advice because I know he doesn’t have my best interests in mind.

Paige gave me that same line, and I don’t think I’m ever trusted anybody who gives me that line again.

It’s disturbing how Ally said Paige reminds her of my dad. Somebody who tries to exert control over me, or tries to help me, but I resist them every step of the way. They say “be responsible”, I say “No. Fuck you.”

And so anger grows. Implosive like a cutter to the bone. But the anger I feel now doesn’t seem to have anything to do with that. See, Poptart invited me to play Graffiti on yahoo games. And if you know anything about me, I can’t draw for beans. So I was naturally frustrated that I couldn’t draw. Combined with lag from dialup, I eventually got very pissed off and just left. I’ve been pissed off since then, hours later.

I’m not used to feeling anger. It’s envigorating. I feel like I want to scream into the night. It’s crossed my mind many times to just go outside and do it. Let it out. Focus on something that bothers me and let it out. Let out the frustration. Stop holding it back anymore.

..But it’s cold outside. *laughs* Though, that probably would calm me down. I just don’t feel like calming down. I’m benign as long as I don’t take it out on anybody. I feel like looking at anger as a speciman. Proding it, seeing what makes it tick.

Was it simple frustration that I couldn’t do something right that angered me? Poptart and I were talking on the phone last night about how when we’re doing group projects, we prefer to do all the work. Because we know we’re the smartest ones in the group, and everybody else will screw it up. Hard to work well with others when good help is hard to find. I don’t think I’ve never been in a group project where I wasn’t the one doing all the work.

Idiots.

So, I’m curious what I’d like to take my anger out on. If I let my mind go and imagine, well, destructive things, I imagine myself beating a stranger to a bloody pulp. It rather disturbing for me to witness my own mind create such vile thoughts. Complete with blood smatterins and skull crunching noises. Not skull cracking. Skull crunching. There’s a difference.

Okay, a complete stranger, not very helpful. So, what do I think this stranger has done to me? Why do I want to beat him? Is it simply transference of anger? Combining every last antogonist into one mindless person to wail on?

Focus. What is this person saying to me?

“You are a horrible person.”

“You’ll never amount to anything.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“What were you thinking?”

“You’re a pussy.”

“You’re going to fuck up. Just watch.”

“You look funny.”

“I don’t care about you.”

“You had so much potential, what happened?”

“You’re not a man.”

“You’re a weakling.”

“You have no confidence.”

“That’s for girls.”

“You’ll never amount to anything.”

“Respect me, I’m better than you.”

As predicted. It’s that voice that has plagued me for so many years. Yet that voice isn’t my own. Those aren’t my thoughts. My dad’s perverted voice ringing in my head. I hear it out of other people’s mouths. I hear it from myself. And apparently, I want to beat the fuck out of it. I made the first step a couple months ago by recognizing that my dad can’t control me. Now I need to take the next step in debugging myself: Freeing myself from years of subtle and sometimes obnoxious comments. Freeing myself from that voice in my head.

I’m reminded of how Cliff said that he didn’t know what happened to me, but I needed to search my childhood and.. what was it. Find out what happened? I need a fucking virusscan on my brain.

Roll me up into a tiny ball of hate and let me at him. I am not all those things. I don’t need your judgement. I will crush you like a former catholic crushes his former god. You can not control me any longer. I’m stronger than you. I spit on you. You will echo silently while my own voice grows stronger. I will not hear you anymore. I will be free.

Fight until I’m free. I don’t need to wrap my hands. There’s no need to fight. There’s nobody out to get me. Nobody at all. The world is empty of opposition. There’s nobody holding me down. There’s nobody putting me down. I have no god trying to smite me. I am myown master, purveyor of my own destiny. And with no opposition, my anger will melt into a warm spa of confidence. Let my defenses disarm, there’s nobody attacking.

And for the record, I have NEVER used the word “purveyor” before in my entire life. I don’t know where it came from. I half thought I was making up the word until I looked it up on dictionary.com. Seriously, WHERE DID IT COME FROM? OMGWTF. That be some wack shit, yo.