Rage. I
see red. I want to
toss objects at the wall. I want to
scream (I often do:
sometimes a scream is better than a thesis) I want to
rip up the earth in great muddy chunks and
hurl it at any person I see. Yes, I have a little problem with rage. Maybe a
big problem. It has almost gotten me
arrested on more than one occasion. I have screamed at my teachers and peers. I have destroyed my own work in the fit of it.
And in the end, secretly, under all my apologies and “What was I thinking?” and the guilt I still think I’m right, maybe not right and any absolute sense, but, in a personal sense. It’s crazy. There is so much in my life to invite harmony! What right do I have to lose my head like a champion cork shot up on new years? Wouldn’t it be better to stay cool? Maybe. Maybe.
My latest fit of rage was on the dirt path in Shenelly park. This tall runner in bright blue shorts had the nerve to pass me. No big deal right? No. You don’t understand. No One Passes Me. Not when I’m running, especially men. They always think they can run faster than me because I’m this short chick (Well, I doubt they really think that. I doubt they really even care.) But guys don’t pass me that’s a rule. So, I pass him right back.
Now, he was running fast. The man was good, lean like a horse, a running machine. He was putting down steps like there was no tomorrow and I had to sprint to pass him. I had to keep sprinting to keep ahead. My lungs started burning and he was gaining on me but I would not give it up. I am not weaker than him, even if he is stronger.
So, I keep up the sprinting for about a quarter mile. He’s not even panting! I’m wheezing like an old smoker and the ground is wavering in front of me. There are iron clamps on my side creaking in tighter by the moment and my lungs feel like I swallowed a roll of barbed wire. “Dig dig dig dig dig.” I think but there is nothing to dig for. I stumble and fall coughing and screaming and crying in the dust looking and the trees and the fast man in the bright blue shorts bounding off into the distance effortlessly, ahead of me I’ve lost.
So, I do the natural thing, and get a hold of the biggest stick I can find and beat the living fuck out of a tree (poor tree) And I’ve got nothing but splinters of wood in the hands and they’re bleeding and I realize I’m 3 miles out in the woods and too spent to run back.
So, I walk home and don’t even look up to see all of the happy carefree runners passing me because I know better.
Possibly, the single most humiliating experience of my life.
I just need to practice more. That’s the ticket.
Next time the bastard will never get past me.