My mother used to say that my only emotion was anger.
If only she knew how much deeper my emotions ran in my veins that they thickened my blood to a quiet, brooding silence, often mistaken for, you guessed it. Anger. I was never particularly good at hiding or showing my emotions. Now I’ve lost control over both. I cannot talk without crying. And stress sets me off like an automated fountain, programmed to go off at every motion its sensor detects. OCD has taken care of my anger. I hope you’re pleased to know, it barely turns to anger now. It merely becomes anxiety. The kind of gnawing anxiety that sits in the pit of my stomach, making me clench my fists and dig my nails so deep into my palm that I leave half crescent marks that don’t fade for hours. So deep that I leave half-moon bruises embedded in the thin skin, made thinner by countless washings of my hands because of my OCD. But you wouldn’t know that right? You’d probably see this insane person looking like she’s about to bite your head off for something trivial. Sometimes it’s trivial to you, but not to me. See, like dropping something my very OCD self has just washed. Or, I don’t know, maybe touching something dirty and then coming near me while insisting it was clean. Trust me. I saw it get dirty.
I have felt a multitude of emotions wash over me ever since the day I dumped my fifth (you read that right) boyfriend. None of them have been about missing him. But I have missed what he used to do for me. Before everything blew up in my face, he was a pretty sweet guy. You know the type, opens doors for you, pulls your chair out for you, waits for you to eat before he digs in, makes sure you always eat something because he knows you get gastric, waits up for you when you can’t walk fast enough…Prince Charming material except everyone knows Prince Charming has the brains of an emu, not that I want to insult Prince Charming since after all he does go through all the actions of being a gentleman. I miss those actions, just not the dude. Regrets? I have none. Except maybe wasting too much time trying to figure out if I should’ve stayed or left. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not this ultra-bitter bitch who thinks every guy is an asshole or that princessy girl who wants everything done for her. It’s just nice once in a while to have someone come in and sweep you off your feet. Preferably not with a broom though. And certainly not sweep you off your feet to repeat Neanderthal procedures of “you’re a woman therefore you do the chores” or “you make pretty good arm candy” or even the “let’s go at it like rabbits” kind.
My one emotion, anger, has evolved by leaps and quantum light years since the last time I checked. Now my range consists mostly of annoyed, sad, depressed, anxious, hurt and moody. I do still get pissy from time to time, so do beware.
This kitten has claws.