I've been getting angrier. I begin to see echoes of my former self in my day to day interactions, and I am not at all happy to recognize the pattern.
I'm not entirely certain why this has been happening, since my dosage is correct so far as I can tell, and CBT did the impossible and taught me some self control. The situation isn't helped by the fact that I notice it happening, which makes me anxious, which in turn lowers my threshold for aggravation, which leads to unfortunate circumstances like what occurred today at work.
We were incredibly busy. I had just gotten done pulling a pallet jack that weighed 12 times my body weight to the back and then unloading it alone. A customer tried to be witty and trick me, score themselves some free merchandise. Thankfully, all I did was respond very curtly, and in a not-so-customer-friendly manner.
'You're correct. I forgot to ask you if you were a member. I'm trying very hard to care about that as if it's important.'
She huffed off, I tried very hard not to throw the marker I'd been using to mark the shipment at the back of her head, and when my break came around I took some extra time to shoot virtual zombies and wish that they were her, this faceless annoying customer who somehow bothered me that much.
Thankfully I gave my notice already, and I'm out of there on Saturday. I shudder to think how I'm going to respond when my manager gets that complaint call. Probably in a very similar manner, since the demon in me is secure in the knowledge that their stupid write ups will have no impact whatsoever upon me and my remaining 12 hours.
Since I've been saying numerous greetings to a version of me that I had hoped to be completely dead, I've been thinking a lot about my younger years. (yes, I understand that I'm 22 and I don't technically have any younger years. My life is split into two distinct timelines; Young Meghan, burgeoning pyschopath extraordinaire, and Older Meghan, she who thinks before she acts.) I shudder when I remember. I was so fucked up. I remember a dinner conversation that occurred a month or so ago, where Husband was reminiscing about some friends from elementary school and asked me if I had any special memories.
I remember being too terrified to speak aloud my first few years at school. I would know the answer to a question or want to tell someone that I liked their shoes, and it would be like the air passing out of my lungs took some hidden shortcut past my voicebox, and only a small whimper would come out. I spent most of my time up until the fourth grade hiding under my desk, or even in one of the bathroom stalls with a bag full of books. Shockingly, children had no idea how to handle this alien behavior. I think that, combined with the fact that my first grade teacher attempted to put me into the special education class, just destroyed any chance I ever had at having friends school. (I did have numerous pen pals, however. It seems my crazy only showed in person.)
Turns out it was a really good idea to hide from people, because I had no idea how to interact with other human beings. I would cry at the slightest frustration, and swell up with rage with little or no provocation. I'm pretty sure I growled at people, and I'm laughing so hard thinking of it now but it was so fucking crazy holy shit..
I'm the only person I know with an extensive list of violent altercations before the age of fourteen.Luckily I only got in serious trouble for that once. (Looking back, it is probably because the teachers and administration were aware of how much bullying was happening. Not that they ever worked on stopping that, but I guess the leniency was nice.).
There was the girl that I pushed off the monkey bars because she was calling me a retard, or the one that I hit in the face with a snow ball for pretty much the same reason. ( a quick shout out to Mrs. Durant, you old cunt. I hold you directly responsible for a lot of my school day suffering. Possibly the only reason my boiling hatred never took a more virulent form is because I was secure in the knowledge that the IQ test you ordered for me came back with a higher score than you.)There was my hit list, of course. Weekly visits with the school counselor started after that. Or when I threatened to stab the girl who was stealing from my desk and putting glue on my chair. Or the boy that I threw over my shoulder and face first into the pavement, the one I got into a fight with and pushed into the creek...the other one that headbutt me in the back of the head as I was walking away...the one who tackled me into the open basement on a construction site.( I'm shocked I could walk home after the last one, honestly. I landed on a pile of rebar.) There was the time that I hit a boy in the head with a pool cue, and the time that I strangled my sister. (attempted homicide by a child is just cute right?)
Thinking of all of these things literally makes my insides hurt. I remember how angry and painful they all were. I feel shame now for how long the list is, especially the times where I wasn't acting in self defense. The worst thing I have ever done isn't even on that list.
I walked to school until I hit high school. The time it took to walk home was, hands down, the absolute worst part of every day. Even walking the way I did, jumping the creek here, shimmying across a concrete embankment there, circling through this out of the way neighborhood, I can only remember a handful of times that I was blessedly left alone. Most days, one or more people would follow me home, taunting me,or throwing rocks. Most of the fights that I got into were on the way home.
I remember one day as I was walking a stray dog came up to me, and I pet it and continued walking. My followers that day, three boys whose full names I remember to this day, assumed that this stray must be my dog. So they began pelting it with stones, and hitting it with a large tree branch whenever it slowed down.
I decided on that day that I was going to kill those three boys. I even carried a knife with me, for that exact purpose.
Suffice it to say, they didn't like my explanation much when they caught me with it in my bag. Cue expulsion, and conditional behavioral therapy, and a stern warning from a worker of the state that this was my last shot, one more 'episode' and I would be removed from my home and placed in special care. I remember sitting in the courtroom, hollow, waiting for sentencing.
They were lenient once again. They gave me the lightest sentence they could. I finally considered the option that I was a part of the problem. I committed to the CBT. I started trying to talk to people and make friends. There are a couple of people I tested my newfound social skills on in middle school who will forever remember me as the creepiest person they ever met, but I adapted to whatever lesson was thrown at me. I have friends now, and a darling husband, and a crazy ass cat. I shouldn't be regressing.
Damn it, I can't afford more therapy.
Steph, dear, since you are the only one who actually reads this, please pay no mind. Despite what you may think, I'm doing okay, just getting very...snappy.
