He sat me down and said “this is gonna be hard for you to watch” and I had no idea what he was talking about. He gave me a nervous glance and then pressed play on the DVD player. It was a collage of my monumental anger. Throwing the utensil drawer to the floor littering it with knives, forks and spoons. Typing on my computer and aggressively pounding the buttons until the keys flew off the keyboard. Slamming the door as hard as I could five times to imitate the neighbour across the hall. Ripping down our curtains and the curtain rod in a rage of anger about something unrelated. Shouting “SHUT THE FUCK UP” at the cute (but loud) little dog who lives next door while banging on the wall. Throwing the cordless phone against the wall because it was dead. These types of things…
The movie played for about 10 minutes and featured an impressive selection of footage. I wondered how he had managed to capture so much footage of me without my knowing.
He turned off the machine. “Don’t be mad” he said.
My face was getting hot, my teeth were grinding, and my heart began beating fast. I forced an artificial passive aggressive smile “Mad? Why would I get mad at that? It was funny!”
“I think you need to talk to someone” he said
“Why? Because I have a couple of bad days and you manage to capture them?”
“You’re getting worse. Nobody feels comfortable talking to you anymore, because they think you’re just going to insult them. Nobody wants to say no to you, because they’re afraid of the repercussions. The apartment is beginning to look like a domestic case. Holes in the walls, damaged floors, lots of broken shit.”
“It’s not a big deal. I just like to get it out. It’s not good to repress your anger you know.”
“It’s not good to be a rage-a-holic either” he said
I felt myself getting pissed! I wanted to punch him in the face and light his hair on fire. Most men appreciated my anger, it made me damn good in bed and added to my already intense personality. Yet this sensitive little fucker who I’d only been dating for 3 months was telling me I had a problem and needed therapy! Where did he get off?!
“I don’t feel that it’s necessary to talk to anyone. I’m not into talking about my feelings and shit. I feel better after I freak out about something. I think a therapist would just make it worse. I don’t wanna sit on a couch with a tissue box beside me telling some fucking stranger who’s just as fucked up as I am what my problem is, when there is no problem! Yes I get very angry sometimes… So what?!”
“Will you try? Just once? Please?”
“So I should just sit by quietly while you destroy the apartment, scare the neighbours and just generally rage about life”
“Yes. That would be nice”
“You’re so fucking stubborn, you know that?”
“What’s your point. This is me, I don’t want or care to change. If you don’t like it, there’s the door.”
“How can you be so cold?” he asked
“Because I’m Frosty the FUCKING SNOWBITCH okay… Leave me alone. Fuck off. Go fix your own life you fucking pansy.”
He stared down at the floor. I think I saw a tear fall from his eye. He knew he wasn’t gonna change me and that his efforts were futile. I don’t go into relationships to be changed. I like who I am, angry or not. And I don’t care if I offend, insult, or scare people. That’s their problem, not mine!
He looked up, his eyes Red and watery. It took every ounce of restraint in my body to not ask him why he was crying like a little girl. I didn’t feel comfortable with this situation. I am not the woman who appreciates the over-sensitivity of a man, especially one who routinely wears chap stick. And I’m not the kind of woman who can handle seeing him cry about something so ridiculous. Someone dies… Okay, cry away. Your girlfriend says no to anger therapy… Suck it up bitch!
Comforting someone (especially a man who’s dropping tears all over my couch) was definitely not my forte.
“So, where does this leave us?” he asked with a shaky tremble in his voice.
“I don’t know…Why don’t you give your balls a squeeze and we’ll talk” I said
My tongue was sharp. I knew that. I’ve never been the type to have one of those internal filters that stops you from saying things that are hurtful or mean to people. My brutal honesty and willingness to say what I “really” think has been an ongoing theme in my life.
He got up and stormed to the bedroom to pack a bag.
Again, my complete lack of internal filters allowed me to continue on. “Oh so you’re gonna pack and leave now because you didn’t get me to do what you want? Is that how this works? Well what about YOUR issues… Like how you piss the bed every time you get drunk, or your fucking crying… What the FUCK is with that? I know chicks going through menopause who cry less than you. And let’s not forget your unnatural obsession with your mother. Why don’t you just go fuck her and get it over with.”
Clothes hanging out of his half-packed bag, he brushed past me aggressively and said “I’ll be back for the rest of my shit when you’re not here.”
He slammed the apartment door and headed down the hall to the elevator.
I ran to the kitchen to grab the tissue box. Opened the door and threw it down the hall, hitting him in the side of the head. “Here’s some tissues you pansy.” I said “Maybe you should go write this in your journal”.
I went back inside, lit a smoke and sighed a huge sigh of relief.
The remote was still sitting on the couch. I pressed play and sat there laughing hysterically at my epic anger collage rewinding and replaying the funniest parts until my stomach hurt from laughing.