I know when someone is mad at me. I may not always understand the reasons why, but I have no doubt I messed up somewhere. I just wish, when I've hurt or offended someone in some way, they’d tell me what I've done. If I don’t know what I’ve done to hurt you, I can’t make it right. It bothers me deeply to know I've hurt someone, but not know how or why. I dislike hurting people, immensely, and I certainly don’t wake up in the morning and think, “Hm…who can I mess with today?” And please don’t tell me, “You know what you did!” expecting me to know, because half the time I can’t remember my own name and the other half I can’t remember what I had for dinner the night before. I’m not trying to be flippant, or glib, but I think we’d all be much better off if we communicated with one another; especially when an offense is involved.
Hubby seems to think I worry too much about people being mad at me. When I ask, “Are you mad at me?” he gets upset and says, “Why do you always think you’re the one I’m upset with?” Mainly because he’s always mad at me for one thing or another (that's marriage, I guess) but also because body language speaks volumes and the silent treatment doesn't usually happen unless there’s an issue.
But here's the current issue that's plaguing me: I don’t understand all this anger I've got within myself right now. I’m FURIOUS AT EVERYTHING! I’m trying not to be. I’m making a concerted effort to speak kindly or at least politely. Counting to ten when I feel myself on auto-response and leaning toward pissed off. I’m trying to temper…uh…my temper. I’m trying to clear my mind of all the nasty things rolling around inside of me, without much luck.
The other day, I was drinking a nice glass of white wine from a lovely winery in Townsend, TN (Cades Cove Winery). I don’t remember exactly what else I was doing – cleaning, I think – but I was so angry! Everything I saw, everything I touched just made me mad. I was slamming around and snapping at everyone. My poor family was hiding from me. Eventually, hubby confiscated my glass of wine (which made me mad) and replaced it with a large mug of freshly-brewed chamomile tea (which confused me, and pleased me all at the same time). I guess it was bedtime for Bonzo.
I’m still mad. I still want to lash out. I don’t feel like being pleasant and friendly. I want to rail against the universe and I can’t understand why. Folks may say it's grief talking, which is a possibility, though I think probably unlikely. Or the depression which has been setting in for a while now and which I’m fighting tooth and nail. Which is probably why I’m angry. But it doesn't matter.
And, since we were just discussing cleaning while angry, I need to say I would very much like to get one of those small bobcat bulldozer thingies and ‘doze everything (EVERYTHING) out of my house and start over.