A couple of months ago, right before I left for BlogHer, I lost my temper at work.
I have had my fair share of criticism in the workplace and I am not too proud to admit that I will never be employee of the month. Something was said to me and in a fit of rage I grabbed my purse, flew out of my seat and rushed to the elevator so I could escape to my car. As I was standing in the hallway, adrenaline pulsing through my veins and near hyperventilation from a panic attack, I punched and broke something. I honestly do not even remember doing it. But I do remember feeling “safe” as I stood in the hallway because no one saw me.
I was wrong.
Someone did see me. It was reported. I enlightened them on what a difficult time I had been having. I was given one more chance to keep my job. I was told I might have to pay to repair what was broken.
After a month of being on my best behavior I thought I was in the clear.
I was wrong.
Yesterday I received a bill of $320, which I was ordered to repay immediately. I wrote the check. Went to my car and sobbed uncontrollably. Don’t worry. This time I didn’t punch anything on the way.
Funny how I wanted to though.
That’s not the first time I’ve had to pay for my behavior. The kind of behavior that makes me hate myself. The kind of behavior that makes me wish I could be someone else. Someone calm and cool and who never lets anything upset them.
That has never been me.
I have always been reactionary. For as long as I can remember I have been getting into trouble because of how I have reacted poorly to difficult situations. I don’t know how to stop. I am already in my thirties but I’m still throwing tantrums. I’m pretty unsuspecting of it too. I don’t look like a punching kind of gal.
That week was terrifying. I thought sure I would lose my job. After everyone had gone to bed that night I went into the playroom and dropped to my knees. I looked up at the moon and begged God to let me keep my job. I promised it would never happen again. That promise was broken two days later when I was honked at in traffic. I will spare you the details of what happened during my commute.
In short, I’m an asshole. I’m also very very stupid.
I was bawling so hard afterward that I couldn’t even see to drive. I wanted to crawl inside a hole and die. I was so scared of what might happen next. I was spiraling out of control and was afraid of myself. I was shaking because I didn’t understand. Why do I make these choices?
Just once I want someone to describe me as a “sweetheart” or a “lovely person.” Those have never been words used to describe me. Relationships of any kind have never been easy for me. I have lost more friendships and love interests than I care to remember. But I understand why. I used to be desperate for friends. But rejection and acceptance are easier than trying to make people believe you are someone else. I know not everyone is built for this shit. I’m not even built for this shit.
I don’t think of myself as a violent person. I would never ever hurt my children. My two hands are filled with nothing but love and support for those two angels that I have been blessed with for reasons I still don’t understand. Once I’m home it feels like a safe haven. It is there I know I am loved and accepted and my walls can come down.
But out there? In the big bad world? I become a child. Unable to handle my emotions. I am angry about things I can’t change. I am angry about things that were said to me years ago. I try to let them go but it’s more like I only forget them for awhile. Just when I think the bear inside me has gone into hibernation, a twig snaps and she is jarred awake again.
From where does all this rage and anger and hatred come? Is it a part of struggling with bipolar disorder? Is it because I am not properly medicated during those times? My therapist tells me that is why. But I’m starting to think therapy is a waste. I feel irreparable.
It’s two months later. I have been doing so much better. I think I’m in the clear. What if I’m wrong?
How much will I have to pay before it stops?
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