Feeding the beast.

Sometimes being passive-aggressive feels SO good.
Like having sex, or candy, when you’re not allowed to.
It’s during the moments when I tend to drift towards hating the world and blaming circumstances and building dark cases for how much everybody is mistreating me, that I realize how much I’ve changed.
I did this for a living.
I was a pro, a natural.
Constantly keeping stock of other people’s behavior.
Secretly scribbling in my virtual journal of emotional insults and wrongdoings (‘she did that to me, he should have said this, this is the THIRD time this month she forgets to do what she promised, he’s not really taking me seriously, I’m constantly giving and she’s not even seeing that!’).
Scribbling and recalling and then secretly holding people accountable for not acknowledging my secret journal, for not appreciating the endless secret lists that I made.
For not seeing what I didn’t tell them in the first place.
I was always keeping count of being neglected, or not respected, or insulted, and then mistake my grudges for sound evaluations.
There was a whole level of pain and confusion that I never showed to people until my emotional sewer was overflowing, most of the time with extremely inappropriate timing.
When I lost it, once in a while, there was so much pressure behind the discomfort that I couldn’t stop the deep urge to hurt the world I held responsible.
It was like vomiting hate.
And instead of seeing how insanely stupid it was to walk around with all this made up hateful garbage, I added to the explosive rage by complimenting myself on being able to sit on this shit for so long, and how unfair it was that people didn’t even notice.
God, I could be SUCH an anal asshole!
SO shockingly out of tune with my wellbeing, SO deeply hurt and scared and chronically lacking.
But this was my world.
This was THE world.
I was brought up thinking there’s not enough, and that you can’t really trust people.
Back then there were plenty of secret journals all around me, and I always found out when it was too late.
So I learned to live my life through this system of poor and victimized evaluation.
I learned to expect people to do stuff, but only in my mind.
I learned to enjoy the overwhelming feeling of righteousness, the suffocating sweetness of superiority, the dark smell of self-inflicted pain.
I learned to feed of these brooding stories, and get used to the rare moments where I finally could let go of the festering emotional load.
I learned to enjoy feeling bad, even though it slowly strangled me.
Until I quit drinking and everything started to change.
And I mean: everything.
Over the last few years I have been able to recalibrate the old patterns into a healthy, thriving system where almost everything flows and bubbles and drifts naturally.
It’s strong and smart and sensible and almost never like it used to be.
Because sometimes it slides into place for a moment, this old and well-trained tendency to lose myself in the dark and try to find fault with everything around me.
And it can STILL feel good, and inviting, like the beckoning bony hand in the basement of a Stephen King novel.
I can still feel the urge to dive in, to wrap myself in glorious egoic goo.
But the difference is the lack of solid ground, and the absence of a secret journal.
Nowadays it’s as powerful as a cardboard dragon.
Scary from one side; unimpressive from most.
– The End –
(Picture by Fabby González, for Unsplash)

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.