I was trying this morning to unravel a jumble of electrical cords in my garage. They were both bright orange and hopelessly tangled. I needed one to plug-in the tire blow-up thingy (be amazed, men and mechanically inclined women, that I know automotive terminology) because someone was coming over to see the old car we’re trying to sell. I only wanted one of them! I finally found an end, plugged in what I hoped was the beginning, and turned on the ‘thingy’. It worked. Pure dumb luck.
I’m going to try to describe a jumble of feelings. They are so intertwined that I can’t find the real root or the end. And I don’t know if it’s the ADHD, the Bipolar, the anxiety, or all three combined, that made me feel so desperate to run away, hide, and throw things. I suppose it could just be life as it was not meant to be. Whatever.
The feelings weren’t from the incident with the electrical cords. But it felt like the same jumble. They happened in the early evening as the sun was setting. I was talking to someone close to me, and the beast of circumstance, jealousy, loneliness, and mistrust rose from his stinking grave to grab my heart.
Once when I was working full-time years ago, I wrote a very short story. I was on the job one day in the afternoon. I had to get up from my desk and leave in a hurry. I was in the middle of an anger episode. Extreme anger! Total frustration. Desperation. Sadness. Restlessness. At life, at circumstances, at God, at myself. It was petulant, childish, and so unstoppable. So me. So consuming.
I sat in my car in the parking lot and wrote for maybe 10 minutes. When I got through imagining the path and actions of my story’s ‘hero’, I felt so much calmer. His actions were my actions. His blind fury was my fury. His total lonely destruction was my soul. And for a while, it helped. Here’s the story.
In My Mind’s Eye
I’m that huge green man-beast, and I’m so full of anger, so overwhelmed by raging frustration that I lunge at anything in my path and smash it, tear it, rip it into a thousand pieces. I stand for a millisecond and scream my rage at the thing I don’t understand.
I’m running through an empty department store at night, tearing clothes off the rack, smashing dishes, wiping everything off the display case. Then I pick up the whole case and throw it across the isles into shelves full of crystal goblets and vases.
This rampage goes on and on with blazing intensity until finally, my breathing labored, sweat dripping down my back like rain, I begin to calm. The sounds of destruction and the frenzied movement begin to satiate the beast inside. The running turns to a jog, the jog to a walk, and I head off into the night to my secret bed. I fall there, exhausted, into a dreamless sleep.
They will never know it’s me because when I awake in the morning, I look and act regular again; too mild to ever have felt that bloody, raw tearing in my soul. But he’s there. And when the pressure begins to build and the wolves can’t be kept away by simply closing the door, he bursts out with eyes blazing, looking for a thousand sacrifices that will cause the demon god to sleep again, restlessly. For a while.