I'm pretty pissy these days. So much so, that my boss has noticed. I had canceled my therapy appointment due to other stuff going on and my boss informed me that I needed to call my therapist back and reschedule that appointment. I guess I must seem on the edge. I called my therapist and got my appointment back for today.
Today we talked about how much I feel angry and hateful. I hate everyone that is happy, perky, active, achieving their dreams, losing weight, living a fun life. I hate their guts. Maybe not in my heart, but in my head, I do. My therapist, the Rug Doctor, loves analogies. She says I am like an iceberg. Twenty percent of me is above water and angry. This is the part everyone sees, the part I project. The other 80% is under the water and is comprised of all the reasons I am angry on the surface. The stress, anxiety, jealousy, vulnerability, sadness, fear, it's all there and it's driving the anger. So, basically, all you skinny, happy, healthy, financially secure bitches are all wining and dining on your little boat called the Titanic of Life. You are having sex all over the boat, eating whatever you want, wearing your diamonds. Some skinny bitch wearing some big old amulet that is dangling in her robust cleavage is hanging over the front of the boat screaming that she is the king of the world with some heart throb standing behind her with a boner. (You can hear Celine Dion singing in the back ground ) I hate her guts. I can't be her, so I'm going to destroy her. Come here you big old Titanic of Life, come slam into this iceberg, let me show you what I think of your happy cruise of a lifetime. Fuck off. Oh, what is that? You're drowning? That's sad, I hope you can push all those ugly people out of the life boats so you can get to safety. Here, let me call my iceberg friends over to chill the water so you turn in to corpse-cicles. I'm over you happy people.
No, I'm fine being an iceberg, really. I've got all sorts of penguin friends that come over and climb all over me and shit on me. Then, next thing you know, all these effing misfit toys show up and inhabit my cavernous hillsides. Really, I'm okay with destroying the Titanic of Happiness, getting shit on by stupid penguins that just keep falling down over and over and using my iceberg ass for a slide for eternity, and then becoming the freaking land of misfit toys in hopes that some dentist with stupid hair and his mother trucking reindeer friend with a nose so bright show up and save the effing misfit toys when Santa gets word where they are. That is just fine with me.
For the record, that probably isn't where the Rug Doctor was going with all that, but since she opened that door, I'm powerless to stop the train wreck of emotions that follow. Speaking of trains, specifically runaway trains (aka, my train of thought), I told Rug Doctor about my anxiety when I see homeless people. I'm torn between empathy and sadness and distrust. I mean, some of those people are scammers out there on the corner. Others are legit people that have fallen on hard times. What if that is me someday? What if I lose everything I have? Financially, we are a mess right now, so what if it all goes to shit? Then, that is me, my dog in a wheel chair, my pimp, Big Daddy, and there I am holding up a sign that says, "Homeless whore with a gimpy dog...anything helps, God Bless." I'm wearing some wealthy bitches coat that she donated to the salvation army in 1986, I've got a half eaten hot dog in my pocket that I found in the dumpster behind Weinerschnitzel and a black eye from Big Daddy from putting up a fight when he took the $20 I earned blowing some crack head. It's cold outside and I'm not sure where to go or what to do and I want more crack. The other street whore bitches don't like me and I pretty much pray for a blizzard so I can walk out in it, curl up and die. Rug Doctor just blinks at me. I think my levels of crazy sometimes take her by surprise. She says that scenario is unlikely to happen. She can't guarantee it won't, however, so the fear remains.
Here's the thing, I don't like being angry and feeling incapable of achieving the things I want to. And don't tell me how I have achieved a lot over the last year. I'm not buying that story. I expect more from myself and this wishy washy ground of "I can't" is kicking my ass. I'm angry. I'm an iceberg. And you bitches partying on the Titanic of Life, you better get your iceberg detection system checked.
Near, far...wherever you are....I believe that the heart does go on...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKS5DwSC0fo
Today we talked about how much I feel angry and hateful. I hate everyone that is happy, perky, active, achieving their dreams, losing weight, living a fun life. I hate their guts. Maybe not in my heart, but in my head, I do. My therapist, the Rug Doctor, loves analogies. She says I am like an iceberg. Twenty percent of me is above water and angry. This is the part everyone sees, the part I project. The other 80% is under the water and is comprised of all the reasons I am angry on the surface. The stress, anxiety, jealousy, vulnerability, sadness, fear, it's all there and it's driving the anger. So, basically, all you skinny, happy, healthy, financially secure bitches are all wining and dining on your little boat called the Titanic of Life. You are having sex all over the boat, eating whatever you want, wearing your diamonds. Some skinny bitch wearing some big old amulet that is dangling in her robust cleavage is hanging over the front of the boat screaming that she is the king of the world with some heart throb standing behind her with a boner. (You can hear Celine Dion singing in the back ground ) I hate her guts. I can't be her, so I'm going to destroy her. Come here you big old Titanic of Life, come slam into this iceberg, let me show you what I think of your happy cruise of a lifetime. Fuck off. Oh, what is that? You're drowning? That's sad, I hope you can push all those ugly people out of the life boats so you can get to safety. Here, let me call my iceberg friends over to chill the water so you turn in to corpse-cicles. I'm over you happy people.
No, I'm fine being an iceberg, really. I've got all sorts of penguin friends that come over and climb all over me and shit on me. Then, next thing you know, all these effing misfit toys show up and inhabit my cavernous hillsides. Really, I'm okay with destroying the Titanic of Happiness, getting shit on by stupid penguins that just keep falling down over and over and using my iceberg ass for a slide for eternity, and then becoming the freaking land of misfit toys in hopes that some dentist with stupid hair and his mother trucking reindeer friend with a nose so bright show up and save the effing misfit toys when Santa gets word where they are. That is just fine with me.
For the record, that probably isn't where the Rug Doctor was going with all that, but since she opened that door, I'm powerless to stop the train wreck of emotions that follow. Speaking of trains, specifically runaway trains (aka, my train of thought), I told Rug Doctor about my anxiety when I see homeless people. I'm torn between empathy and sadness and distrust. I mean, some of those people are scammers out there on the corner. Others are legit people that have fallen on hard times. What if that is me someday? What if I lose everything I have? Financially, we are a mess right now, so what if it all goes to shit? Then, that is me, my dog in a wheel chair, my pimp, Big Daddy, and there I am holding up a sign that says, "Homeless whore with a gimpy dog...anything helps, God Bless." I'm wearing some wealthy bitches coat that she donated to the salvation army in 1986, I've got a half eaten hot dog in my pocket that I found in the dumpster behind Weinerschnitzel and a black eye from Big Daddy from putting up a fight when he took the $20 I earned blowing some crack head. It's cold outside and I'm not sure where to go or what to do and I want more crack. The other street whore bitches don't like me and I pretty much pray for a blizzard so I can walk out in it, curl up and die. Rug Doctor just blinks at me. I think my levels of crazy sometimes take her by surprise. She says that scenario is unlikely to happen. She can't guarantee it won't, however, so the fear remains.
Here's the thing, I don't like being angry and feeling incapable of achieving the things I want to. And don't tell me how I have achieved a lot over the last year. I'm not buying that story. I expect more from myself and this wishy washy ground of "I can't" is kicking my ass. I'm angry. I'm an iceberg. And you bitches partying on the Titanic of Life, you better get your iceberg detection system checked.
Near, far...wherever you are....I believe that the heart does go on...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKS5DwSC0fo
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