Letting off steam

Trouble with hormones. Man cycling on the pavement of Midland Road, which has little vehicular or pedestrian traffic, a wide pavement and low kerb so you can fairly easily move on and off the pavement on a bicycle. Being in an arsey sort of mood, I think to myself “It’s a road vehicle,” and walk so as to force him to the edge of the pavement. He wobbles on the edge, passes me, and shouts abuse: “Slut!” he shouts. “Slut! Slut!” Quotidian human interaction…

Here am I on the green pills, which may or may not cause emotional lability, and my emotional reaction shows in my face and actions. Sometimes I am upset, and I start to cry (Oh God, I think, why can I not get this sentence out? Such frustration!) and sometimes I get angry. There is a rational basis, an explicable factual stimulation behind both responses, the world is not as I want it to be, do you want it to change too, can we make it better? The crying produces “there there” noises and offers of help and sympathy- still frustrated, I think No! Under this I am sensible- and the anger produces an equal and opposite reaction, or sometimes expressions of hurt from others which get sympathy and I am the Bad Person.

It is so frustrating! If only I could choose: calm, rational explanation; turn on the waterworks to elicit, “Oh! How can we help? What can we do?” Anger just at the right moment…

Arse excelled himself. (Quakers do not know whom I mean.) Now, when exactly the same circumstances are about to arise, I think, surely he will not do it again? Fearing that he will, I find anger and irritation rising, and wonder if I will be able to resist the sarky remarks which he just might take as a challenge. I know a soft answer turneth away wrath, and it is oestrogen I am on, and still.

Or, total bore whose topics of conversation with me, when I fail to avoid her, are what a wonderful Ally she is and what right-on opinions she has about LGBT (which I feel is my topic, and I don’t want to talk about it except when I do) and ghastly sympathy about how awful it must be to wear a wig, be unemployed etc. Actually, wearing a wig is like having your own hair: sometimes I love it, sometimes I think Oh God I look like a man! It looks like a wig! I look terrible! To which the appropriate answer- most women understand this- is “You look beautiful. Of course I mean that. I would not say it if I didn’t mean it…”

So I shouted at her, making my aim about which I was really stressed less likely to be achieved, making me less able to contribute to achieving it, and making me the bad person. Yes, I know I upset people. Sometimes I regret that, and sometimes I just regret the results.

Feuerbach, Medea

Go on, you know you want to

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