for shame.

I hit a door last night. The linen closet door.

In frustration.

I mean, I really smacked the fuck out of that thing.

I've got a bit of a temper, but usually it takes a a lot to get me worked up, and then I start hollering and carrying on nonsensically. Occasionally, I cry. Frustration is one of the only things that makes me cry.

But I never hit things.

I've been known to bust bottles and tip things over for fun, to blow off some steam. Not because I'm pissed,  but because I'm being rebellious, because I don't give a damn, because it thrills me. Because it makes me feel young.

Hitting things, there's no thrill in that. Just impact. The sound is not even as impressive as busting glass. Hitting things doesn't make me feel less frustrated, I found out. It makes me feel even less in control.

I'm on a short fuse lately.

It takes nothing to set me off.

You know why I threw that tantrum? Because that's what it was, a tantrum. I threw it, I hit that damn door because Matt was taking out his contacts and I told him I had to go to the bathroom. I told him and told him and he thought I was playing around, which I wasn't. So he decided to trim his mustache.

Slowly.

Really rub it in that he was taking as long as possible. Messing around with me. He thought it was all just fun and games.

And I had to pee.

And I was not in the opinion that this was fun and games.

I maybe could have held it. Probably, I'm not a toddler.

But instead, I couldn't get him to take me seriously in my pleas, so I took out my aggression on a door frame.

Hard.

And last night we went to bed not speaking to one another. Over something so incredibly stupid that I cannot even make sense of it.

 

I need to get a grip.