Walking Down the Runway of Fury
There are moments I close my eyes and I envision yelling so loud I shatter my windows; the tiny pieces of glass creating chaos and glitter everywhere they scatter. There are other moments where I imagine punching someone (yes, sometimes people I know and love) so hard I knock out their teeth and can see droplets of blood trickle down their chin — but not in a sexy way, like one of these new age vampire movies — in a holy f*ck you just punched me, you badass (crazy) bitch, kind of way. Sometimes I’m just so pissed I can feel my body omit an aura of rage that everyone around me can sense and cut with the dullest object you can think of.
They say feeling is a good thing and I most definitely concur with most of that psychobabble… when it’s someone else. When it comes to me, I wish I could be as cool as a cucumber all the time and stiff upper lip the shit out of situations that make me upset (you cannot imagine, dear reader, the amount of times I have pictured myself strutting about in high heels — that in reality I can’t walk in — to some kick ass song, like Welcome to the Jungle, giving people I want to kick in the face the stink eye while looking totally sexy, my hair blowing in the breeze). But I can’t. I have tried and tried, and I fail and fail.
So now, instead of suppressing and/or ignoring, I’m trying to navigate through my anger, which can be very uncomfortable. It means admitting to things that are embarrassing, like the fact that certain things make me upset. It also means not meeting the expectations I’ve created of myself in my mind, which with an imagination as healthy as mine, is a total bummer (goodbye 11' Louboutins I can walk in like a boss). I’m beginning to understand that maybe it’s okay that I don’t look like a runway model when I’m pissy (becasue I don’t look like one happy, either). That maybe it’s okay I actually look a little messy because I’m having a little cry, mascara streaming down my face creating black goop in the corners of my eyes. I’m getting to a place where it’s okay to admit to myself that certain things make me upset, like not hugging the person I love for a few hours, despite being in the same house, because I’m a total attention nut (yeah, and that’s okay too as long as I’m not kicking and screaming) and I need a freaking hug. And finally, maybe it’s alright to just be me.