Apparently, I Have Anger Management Issues...
I know most of you would never have guessed it to be so.
If you haven’t listened to BMan and I on our last podcast, I’m going to pretend for the moment that you didn’t just say that, and give you an opportunity to correct yourself.
I digress.
So, Brian and I were on the subject of exactly how many small countries I would have overtaken by now if I were the size of Brian. At 5’2, I may very well kick your ass. At 6’3, I would burn down your entire state, then sit in the smoldering ash and draw out my new animal sanctuary plans before all of the flames were done putting themselves out.
It would never be a good idea for me to grow a foot, and look any kind of intimidating. Why? Because I am an angry ass little lady.
What exactly am I angry about? Everything, basically. I’m a complete and total hothead. I have no chill. I’m always on a real tear about something or another.
Brian, of course, finds this shit to be mildly entertaining, while at the same time, I think he’s fairly certain that one day it’s going to end with some indictments.
I scoff, of course, because I’m not trying to leave trace evidence for a technician to find. But if you see me headed your way with my gorgeous hair under a conditioning cap, I wouldn’t hesitate to pick up the pace.
I have unresolved anger that I used to mask under a heavy ass layer of oxycodone. Instead of dealing with my sadness, instead of coming to terms with the grief that had consumed my life, my marriage, and everything I loved, I just shoved it down my throat with a pill and went about my day.
I often say I’m terrible with emotions, and it is as honest as I can be about the situation. The truth is, I refuse to admit that I have them, and I won’t allow them to introduce themselves at any function or event. They can just sit their asses right on down and shut the fuck up.
However, ever the personal growth champion, I’ve decided that I will attempt to sort some of this anger before it lands me a 7 to 12 stretch at Lowell Correctional Facility, because I know I’ve mentioned how I can’t wear any sort of orange tone. It is not flattering with my skin tone.
There is an app, as there seems to be for everything in life now, that promises to teach me how to better sort and manage my emotions. It’s called Intellect, and if it does as it says, they’re about to get some of the best advertising that a miniature psychotot could give them. They’re about to trim back some of this anger like last falls highlights.
So I started the app last week. I am happy to report that I actually have learned something that I think may help a little already. And it is a really cool little app, you do micro-lessons, and get this shit; I knew I could stick with it when you had the option to read the lesson instead of listen to someone else read it to you. I like to have the authority to read at my pace. Yes, I do have control issues. The app knows it as well.
You start with a personality test, and it asks you where you think you need to work on your mental well-being, then it tells you what your test says you need to work on. For me, I’m anxious, I have fear of abandonment issues, and a little problem with overachieving because of a deep seeded fear of rejection and failure. Oh, and I’m slightly angry. That means I’m going to constantly stay up all night, thinking of how you rejected and abandoned me, and I’m going to be very, very angry about it.
That’s okay though, this is exactly why I’m doing my own psychology work these days. I am way too much of an uptight control freak to allow someone else to work on my crazy, but I don’t mind DIY crazy remodeling. I love DIY, and I have all of the tools already, so I’m giving the app a shot.
Week 1, I haven’t lost my shit completely with anyone. Partially, two people, but I am not responsible for how fucking stupid other people are. I can only thank baby Jesus that I’m not, and in very colorful language explain to them what their mothers actual career path was.
So, yeah. I’ll be doing that if anyone is looking for me. Listen, if it works, I’m going to have to change jobs. I’ll be the least bitchy Bitchface south of the Mason Dixon.
Let’s just say I haven’t updated my resume at this point, but we’ll see in about 4 weeks.