Tag Archives: anger

Mrs Angry!

ist2_2239262_angry_woman When I was younger, I used to be the queen of the angry consumer letter. I sent off a lot of letters to companies (electricity or gas companies, for example) which had overcharged me or had just been incompetent one way or the other. (There really is nothing I hate more than incompetence!) My friends would laugh at me, and say that I was wasting my time, but I have always believed very vehemently that it’s important for the individual consumer, or concerned citizen, to make his or her voice heard. True, one person probably can’t affect any, or much, change all by themselves, but all these individual voices added together will sometimes have a lot of power. Even if they don’t, it’s still important to speak out about something unjust or unfair.

In recent years, unfortunately, I have tended to let things go, and many of these things were issues which really needed to be addressed. Take, for example, the question of the bad reference letter I got from my Master’s thesis advisor who had promised me a good reference but then sent off a bad one instead! This duplicitous, sneaky, self-righteous bitch really deserves to get a piece of my mind but I’ve never got around to telling her exactly what I think of her. I also need to file a complaint against the woman in my teacher’s certification program who emotionally bullied me for months.

Will complaining about either of these women change anything or make them reflect on how prejudiced and hypocritical they are? No, probably not because if either of these women were caring human beings, willing to reflect on their behaviour and how it can affect and hurt other people, they would never have behaved the way they did in the first place. However, somebody, somewhere has to say something and maybe, one day, if they receive enough individual complaints, they will be forced to change.

I don’t know why I’ve stopped complaining. The main reason, I think, was because when I moved to the US, I got so depressed that it was hard enough to find the energy to survive let alone complain about anything. Recently, thankfully, I’ve been feeling more like my old self, and I’m glad because the world needs people who will stand up for their own rights and the rights of others.

My newfound sense of energy and passion has come at a good time because, today, I was treated in the most cavalier , patronizing and sexist manner by a cop…just because I happen to be a woman. When I was out running, I was nearly run over by a total dickhead who, although the light was green for pedestrians, looked furious that I dared to be on the road and decided not to stop for me. If I hadn’t jumped out of the way, there is no doubt in my mind that I would have been hurt or killed. As a runner and a cyclist, I have encountered many careless drivers who have not been paying attention and who have nearly run me over, but this guy was different. He probably didn’t see me at first but when he did, there was no attempt to stop for me. In fact, he drove straight at me! I, and a female pedestrian on the other side of the street, were left flabbergasted by his actions.

I ran off down the street after him, but obviously couldn’t keep up. However, I hung about in the area because I suspected the driver was looking for parking given that he had turned off a busy road into an area where there were many parking lots. Sure enough, he drove past me a few moments later, and I called the cops. I don’t know why I bothered because the state trooper who showed up wouldn’t listen to my side of the story and, first of all, took the driver aside and let him talk, uninterrupted for several minutes. I, apparently wasn’t “calm” enough to give testimony! Too right I wasn’t! I had nearly been killed by an angry, aggressive driver. I actually had to fight to get my version of events across. In fact, it was obvious that the officer had already made his mind up about the incident before he even spoke to me because the driver put on a very nice little show of being all trite and apologetic. Funny how he didn’t seem quite so well-mannered when he was putting his foot on the accelerator!

When the cop finally did speak to me, he was far more interested in reprimanding me for having called the driver an “asshole” than being concerned that he had nearly killed me. I should add that, at no point, was I rude or disrespectful to the officer. All that I did “wrong” was be upset and give the driver a piece of my mind. I could be mistaken, but I don’t even think I called the driver an asshole in the officer’s presence! I expressed how I felt to the driver before the cop arrived, so he must have made a point of telling the cop I had insulted him. He made it seem that he had just accidentally driven straight at me, and that I was an unreasonable person for not having accepted his apology.

It was clear to me that this officer had no interest in anything I had to say because I was an “angry woman”. I wasn’t taken seriously and I was patronized at every point. I was also lied to because the officer told me there was nothing he could do to this man because he had not hit me. The security guard who helped me call the cops (and who was a retired police officer who had been in the force for thirty years) later told me this wasn’t true, and that the cop could have issued a citation if he’d wanted to.This security guard was actually lovely, and listened to me, and showed sympathy, far more than the cop did. If only more cops were like him but, sadly, too many have the social skills of turds, and are filled with weird, little fucked-up prejudices.

Unluckily for this state trooper and the idiot driver, I’m in a very, very big complaining mood. I’ve already filled out a complaint against the cop, and I will be filing a criminal complaint against the driver at the county attorney’s office, too. I will also be writing a letter to two local newspapers about what happened to me, in the hope that they will get published. Finally, I am going to start a petition and get local runners to sign it, which I hope will strengthen my complaint againt the cop.

Ain’t nobody gonna try run over this angry woman without there being a whole lotta fuss afterwards! I’m sure nothing will happen to either of these men, but I’m sure as hell going to make myself as big a pain in the arse as possible! Huh!


“And all men kill the thing they love…”

It’s Monday morning, and the day has not started well. When I went into the bathroom for the first pee of the day, I found that my wee blind kitten had managed to step in his own crap again, and had left little shitty kitten paw prints, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, all over the floor. Sigh.

Also, there was nothing nice to have for breakfast. Breakfast is my favourite meal of the day, and I’m always put out of sorts if it’s not good. Usually I like to have something sweet for breakfast, but today I was craving breakfast tacos, which are probably the most perfect breakfast creation ever. They will be one of the few things I miss about this place when I leave. And, oh, margaritas, too.

There were, however, sadly no breakfast tacos or margaritas for me this morning. Instead I had porridge, made the old-fashioned way with just salt and water. When I was growing up and asked my mum if I could have sugar in my porridge instead of salt, she said that I couldn’t because “that’s the way the English eat their porridge”. The implication was that the English were too effete and spoiled to be able to handle salt in their porridge. She may have been right.

I have also run out of my usual organic Earl Grey Tea, and therefore had to slum it with Tetley (one of the most popular brands of tea in the UK), which I had bought once when I was overcome with nostalgia in a shop selling foreign items. God knows why this stuff is so popular…it tastes like warm goat’s piss (or, well, what I imagine warm goat’s piss would taste like).

After my Oliver-Twist-in-the-workhouse-like breakfast, I started to write in my journal, which has become a bit of a chore lately given that I normally end up repeating everything I write there on here. I’ve started leaving out lots of the more juicy things in the journal because I know I’ll just write about them in my blog instead. This makes me worry that my great-grandchildren will think I lead a very boring life, lacking in imagination, when they find my journal one hundred years from now, growing mouldy in an attic somewhere. Perhaps I should put a sticker on the front of my journal with my blog address to avoid such a disturbing occurrence?

You’d think it would be exactly the opposite, though, wouldn’t you? You would think that I would want to keep the most intimate, embarrassing and gruesome truths of my life for myself in my journal, wouldn’t you? Nope. I most definitely prefer airing my dirty laundry online in the blogosphere. Perhaps it’s because I’m tired of being stuck inside my own head, and crave readrers with whom I can interact.

I do find all this writing therapeutic, though. I think I carry a lot of unresolved anger around in me and writing, specifically blogging, allows me to work through my issues far more thoroughly. This morning, for exampe, while writing in my journal, I suddenly felt a surge of anger towards Midwestern Man. It came out of the blue but I suppose I must have been unconsciously thinking about yet another conversation we had yesterday about his inability to finish his art projects. As you know it bugs the shit out of me that he’s nearly thirty-two and that he doesn’t appear to have got his act together.

The reason why I would be a good teacher is because I’m very encouraging and supportive of other people’s dreams, but somehow I can’t manage to be this way for Midwestern Man. I went through a phase when I’d talk to him all the time about teaching, persuading him to train to be one, too. I do think he’d be a good teacher actually, and he already teaches some evening classes in art, but my constantly harping on about it just made him resentful and bitter. I suppose I should just leave him be, but even if I do, and never say anything about the situation to him again, he’s going to sense that I, deep down, don’t really believe he can do it. I want him to do it, but I just don’t have much faith in him. I know that’s terrible, but I really don’t. I realize that my lack of support (whether vocalized or not) will only make the situation worse, but I don’t know how to make myself believe in him. I don’t have any evidence from his past I can use to help me develop more faith. All I see is a long trail of procrastination and unfinished projects.

I even hate the art form on which he’s decided to focus – the graphic novel. Well, that’s not entirely true, as I do like things like Persepolis and Maus but that’s because they talk about real things, important things. Whenever I look at the graphic novels Midwestern Man reads, they’re all fucking fantasy scenarios…bombs exploding; femme fatales with their anatomically impossibly big breasts bursting out of their tight clothes; apocalyptic scenes….It’s all fucking bullshit. Nothing I can relate to because it’s not linked to reality in any shape or form.

Midwestern Man accuses me of “not having an active fantasy life”, which I find amusing because I think I’ve got far more imagination than he does. It’s not really true either that I don’t like fantasy. In fact, my favourite genre of fiction is probably magic realism because it combines fantasy with (guess what?!) REALISM! When I read Gabriel Garcia Márquez, for example, I don’t think to myself “Oh, here is an author who has taken refuge in the world of fantasy and spirits because he spent all his teenage years, and most of his young adulthood, hiding in his bedroom, never getting laid, because he was too socially awkward”. This is exactly what I think when I see the vast majority of comics and graphic novels, however.

I despise fantasy and science fiction because these are genres written by people who do not have a handle on reality. And how can you write good fantasy if you haven’t yet mastered the skill of seeing the fantastical in everyday, commonplace happenings?!

I would say that Midwestern Man does not have a very good grasp of reality. However, as I was writing today in my journal, it occurred to me that this was precisely the quality in him I had fallen in love with, except that I had viewed it in a much more romantic, positive light. I adored the fact that Midwestern Man was so idealistic. There is a childlike innocence and simplicity to him, which was so refreshing to me, caught as I was in my world of handjobs and depression.

I had admired that quality in him but now, if I really examine myself, I think I would like to destroy it. Pluck it out of his heart, dash it to the ground and stamp on it again and again, leaving a crushed bloody mess, completely unrecognizable.

I wonder why that is. Perhaps I am jealous that he has survived so long and managed to remain this pure and free. Perhaps I want to drag him down with me…Whatever the reason, I want to crush him, kill him, drain him. I’ve done it before to men who loved me, and I want to do it again. The sheer depth of my cruelty astounds me.

I hate his fucking guts. I love him so much. My poor husband.

The grass is always greener?

Yesterday, just after I had spent ages writing a post bitching about that evil Southern Belle bitch of a teacher, I received an email from her which was actually nice:

I hope you will continue to pursue your dream of teaching, and that you are doing well. If you would like to reapply to the cohort, don’t forget the deadline is October 30. Let me know if there is anything you need.

As soon as I read that, I actually thought to myself, “Oh, that was nice…Maybe she’s not so bad after all!”. The funny thing about me is that, even though I am capable of experiencing extreme anger, I calm down pretty quickly and sometimes even forget all about the person/situation that made me so angry. In many ways, this is a nice quality to have as I’m not the kind of person to harbour a grudge (God, I hate people like that!) but, on the other hand, my amnesia means that I sometimes fail to protect myself from unhealthy people and situations just because I’ve forgotten the pain they caused me in the past!

Take my former Master’s thesis advisor, for example…Readers from my former blog will remember that she said she would give me a good reference when I applied to the teaching program, but she then purposely sabotaged my chances by giving me a bad one, and sending it off without telling me. I wouldn’t say she was directly to blame for the problems that ensued with Southern Belle Bitch, but her bad reference certainly set up a situation whereby Southern Belle Bitch was looking out for me to slip up. I was extremely angry with my advisor – and I still am – but I’ve filed the anger away in a little compartment that’s so deep inside me that it’s hard for me to access it now. And because I find it hard to access that anger, I never wrote a letter to her telling her exactly what I think of her.

Part of me wants to, but would it really even do any good? Her actions show that she’s clearly a self-righteous bitch, and morally superior to others, so would she even stop to ponder my words?

Throughout my time in my teaching program, I swore that I would complain about Southern Belle Bitch at some point. I believe that she emotionally bullied me (as well as a friend of mine who left the program because she was so demoralized and broken down), and I saw her play the favourites game shamelessly, and let her ego and personal prejudices affect her teaching at every point. There is no doubt about it – this woman is a bad teacher, and an even worse person. How strange then that one little email can make me better disposed towards her!

Her email also made me wonder – and here’s where the title of today’s post comes in – whether I should re-apply to this program again and stay in this town where I’ve never really felt happy or settled. I’ve been thinking about applying to graduate schools on the East and West coasts, and the idea of that is filling me with excitement. I’m someone who gets bored very easily, and I need constant stimulation and “newness” to keep me going. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that, but I do spend a lot of time feeling unhappy wherever I am, and believing that I’d be happier elsewhere. I’ve lived in four countries at this point, and you’d think I would have learned by now that a change of locale is exactly that – a change of locale. Changing your physical location won’t really do all that much in the long-term to change your emotions. Sure, in the beginning you’ll have a regained sense of joy and excitement, but slowly and slowly, your old bad habits and negative thinking patterns will creep back in.

I have pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I will be disappointed no matter where I live or with whom I associate, as I’m far too idealistic and have far too many expectations; but there are, nonetheless, many things I don’t have in this town which would make me happier, if not happy, if I had them elsewhere.

I know that life on the other side of the fence might not be what I’m hoping for, but this time I really do believe it would be a good idea to try that grass out…