My neighborhood is old. By old I mean that it looks a lot like Florida during the winter months. Old people wearing Hawaiian shirts and golf pants. Women bathed in so much Avon perfume that you can smell them 15 years after they have left the room.
And they all have little dogs that always have black eye crusts stuck in their fur and cute little plastic flamingos stuffed into their gardens because it makes sense living in Canada.
I do a lot of thinking on my morning walks around the neighborhood and it blows off just enough steam to prevent me from overdosing my son’s fish on food pellets.
“Smile! It’s Wednesday! Halfway to the weekend!” an old bastard shouted.
Why? Are you dying on the weekend?
I quickly smiled at him and continued parading down the street, purposefully smashing through early autumn leaves with my angry flip flops.
I had no idea why I was so mad in the first place. The kid didn’t cry when I dropped him off at school. It was my birthday and I already had received some wonderful birthday wishes. I was going to treat myself to Starbucks after I had my bangs trimmed because then I’d feel all sassy walking up to the barista giving her the impression that my hair meant business and that I’d leave her a dollar tip, only I’d never do that because the drive through is more convenient and I’d never tip her a dollar because I bet she never tipped a nurse for saving her ass from herpes.
Why was I so angry?
When I got home from my walk, I whipped the side door open only to see my dog sitting there with his ears pulled back.
“Oh hi Momma. Look, I want to applaud you for your efforts at trying to fight the depression current, but my sixth sense says that shit is about to get real and you should probably get help and I had to eat a piece of the kitchen floor. Happy Birthday?”
The asshole had linoleum floor hanging from his jowls.
That was all I needed.
A single, justifiable reason to be pissed off at life.
The anger that had been building up for weeks exploded through my vocal cords. If I was sitting outside of myself, I would have given it a 10 and a standing ovation because the string of obscenities that were belted out loud was probably better orchestrated than a Broadway Musical.
I swirled through my home declaring war on appliances and every single human being driving a car that never gave me the courtesy “thank you wave” when I let them merge in the lane.
I was about to kill my son’s stained jeans with bleach when I decided to stop to take a few deep breaths while I figured out if I was overreacting or not.
Then I slid to the floor and began to cry.
There was simply no reason why I was angry. Sure the dog destroyed another section of our floor but we are about to demolish it anyways.
For me, there never really is a justifiable reason, or if there is one, it would never warrant such an intense and completely irrational response.
Anger is like a complimentary symptom that comes with bipolar disorder.
Anxiety = frustration = anger = anxiety = depression = irrational thoughts = loss of control = anxiety = rage = and so on and so on… (not necessarily in that order)
The symptoms are like tag teaming assholes.
They are uncomfortable, uncontrollable, inescapable, and absolutely terrifying.
But what sets the anger apart from every symptom that I experience is that the anger makes me hurt other people (feelings that is).
On Friday, I made the executive decision to go back on a stronger dose of one medication.
It’s day two back on my medication and I cannot even begin to count how many blow ups I’ve had so far. I have spent half of my weekend alone in my room with a pillow over my face wondering what it’s like underneath all these layers of symptoms that I have without medication.
It’s very disheartening knowing that I have to take this and that in order for me to function in a society where slicing tires isn’t normal behavior.
I’ve never done that.
Bravo me for creating stigma.
I wish that I could describe to you exactly how it feels to be angry, depressed, anxious, paranoid, and so happy that you burp up little people tossing those bead necklaces as a thank you for flashing your tits, for absolutely no reason.
And I wish that it did and that I would have absolute control of how I would handle them.
And I wish that you’d understand that my symptoms are not who I am as a person.
*No fish or dogs were harmed
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