My last meltdown was about five minutes ago, when I realized there’s no decent cheesecake delivery option out here in the greasy crevice of Satan’s Anus*. And by ‘decent’, I obviously mean, ‘inarguably flawless, and with more varieties than the cheesecake factory’.
There’s a lot of very aggressive hoop de do out there about positive energy and a can-do attitude and using ‘fuckit’ as a way to minimize the stress that results from caring. While I love the fuckit approach, I hate that it has become synonymous with investing less rather than its much more preferable (and vastly more rewarding on so many levels) ‘do it anyway’ flip side. And the positive energy can-do skippy hiccup riddled excuse for denial can hump every overgrown cactus from here to the Pacific.
Let’s be clear; a positive attitude is often helpful. Sometimes you have to say fuckit and walk the fuck away and not the fuck look back. For sure. What kills me about the unceasing need to coat the world with glistening live-laugh-love-whilst-making-lemonade shellac is that half of its function is to shame people for articulating their grievances, however trite and petty they might be. And more than the shaming, is the utterly poisonous idea that a rant or meltdown isn’t healthy. It’s like saying kale is healthy, when what is really meant is that it is nutritious in x,y, and z specific ways. ‘I worry about your mental health, Kitchen, what with all these meltdowns! My goodness, you must be so stressed out!’
Fuck off, Charlene. Your blithe insipid grin is stressing me out. Put that away before you become the focus of an entire rant.
It’s possible that some people just don’t understand my meltdowns; maybe for them, a meltdown is a sort of gentle quiet crying moment, and then it’s done/bye. My meltdowns have flavor and varying depths, but do not often include crying. Most of them are simply there to let me articulate what’s bothering me, and, as am bothered, my tone will reflect the current angst temperatures. The most important thing rants and meltdowns do for me is acknowledge and communicate my anger. And, as a woman, let me assure you that my anger is in no way acceptable or required at any given moment.
So of course, I’m over here with seventeen ice picks and a giant thorn covered dong for all the lovely anger shaming grundle boogers that roam freely into my life.
What gets me most about the rant shamers is that it doesn’t faze them that my rants are about my feelings and not about conflict resolution (they’re somehow convinced that me having the first means I can’t be capable of the second). They are unconcerned with my meltdown being about what I’m going through; it’s much easier to have it represent my general uselessness as a human because gah these pesky emotions that clearly mean I lack consistency and skill and work ethic. They ignore how honest, articulate, calm, and careful I am when handling an actual confrontation. They overlook the waiting and the leeway and the conversations ad nauseam that often take place in order to resolve a situation. These particular shamers forget their actual history with me in favor of their easy, cheap, conclusions that were born exactly in that moment with a Mary Poppins satchel of bullshit and zero sires to their name. The second I have an emotional reaction to anything, I am less than, and the proof is in my rants [about technology, diabetes, drunken emus who think they are somehow capable of driving, the lack of decent delivery in a place that really has no valid excuses etc etc etc]. Instead of taking half a non ego riddled second to think, “Why would she be upset?”, or even, “What kind of upset is this?”, they hand me half baked, poorly mixed, judgment on a shit crusted paper plate.
I suppose everyone will do their thing. I will rant, if needed. And have meltdowns, if needed. I decide if it’s needed. It took a lot of work to be ok with my rants, and the work wasn’t needed because the rants were destructive (they weren’t). I had to learn to be unrelentingly proud of my ability to feel, because my pride was the only thing that muted the roar of minimizing from people who claimed to care. Ranting is verbal cardio, and I love a good run.
*names have been changed