Anger Management :: A Midnight Rant

I’ve just given up on getting to sleep early and getting up early and getting on with my life in a controlled and successful manner for yet another miserable motherfucking day. I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep because I’m too fucking angry. This is one of the reasons I’m going to see a therapist on Friday. I get angry an awful lot. More than I think is altogether reasonable.

I’ve seen therapists twice before. Once when I was in my late teens. Once a few years ago. I didn’t particularly care for either of them. The first one started crying when I was telling her some standard familial horror story. ‘You’ve touched me,’ she said, wiping away a tear. I don’t recall how this made me feel at the time, but in retrospect, I roll my eyes and shake my head and sigh. Also, as I'm on the internet, I say, 'Pfffft'.

The second one was of the ‘I’m going to sit here in more or less complete silence for an entire hour’ school. On the rare occasions that she did speak, it was always to suggest that whatever I’d just said was in some way connected to her and to our counselling sessions together. After the fourth or fifth time she did this, I felt compelled to point out that in my opinion she was a little fixated on my relationship with our sessions and that there was more to my life than the hour a week I spent with her.

I’m not entirely sure why I have such high hopes for this next stab at psychotherapy. Apart from the fact that I’m older now and I have a much clearer idea of what I think is wrong with me. And maybe also because this time I’ll be paying, therefore I DEMAND SATISFACTION!

Anyway, because I’ve had such a shit day, I’ve decided to have a good old whine about it. (Wellington, if you’re reading, I apologise, but I need it.)

So. It was just one of those days today, you know? I was trying really hard to get a bunch of things done – chores I’d been putting off – paying bills, sorting out an accountant, all the vile life admin crap I’d been putting off for the last couple of months. And everything kept going wrong. I discovered that I’ve lost my passport, a copy of which the accountant needs. I spilt a pan of stew over my keyboard. I slipped on a stair and burnt my forearm on the banister. Stupid shit like that. I got in a strop with an automated payment system and ended up swearing my face off and hanging up three times. Three times! And what the fuck is the point of swearing at a machine? What is the point of shouting, ‘I DON’T WANT ANY OF THOSE OPTIONS, YOU MECHANICAL FUCKING MORON! I WANT TO SPEAK TO A HUMAN BEING!’ This is why I need therapy. Part of the reason. I came so close to throwing my handset through a window today. I would have despised myself if I had. That’s the other part of why I need a therapist. The self-loathing.

I really felt like getting drunk tonight, although I realised that it wasn’t a great idea. It wasn’t a great idea because it would have been escape-drinking, and I really want to avoid that if I can. In this case I was able to avoid it easily because there was nobody around to get drunk with. All the friends I have in London are in couples and if there’s one thing worse than ringing up a coupled-up friend and suffering the mutual discomfort of being told that he really just wants to stay in with his girlfriend tonight, then I don’t even want to think about it. I even got in contact with Morag, just to see if she was free for a chat. You know? Friends. That’s all. We can still be friends, can’t we? But I just ended up feeling like Barry Champlain in Talk Radio when he hears his ex-wife telling her new husband that her seeing him (Barry) is just like she's visiting a sick relative. I don't want to feel like a sick relative, thank you very much. Which probably isn't fair on Morag. Is it, Doctor? Meanwhile, brand new friend Paddy is away on business, sending cryptic messages that make me think he might be under the impression that he’s Jason Bourne. Keith! Where are you when I need you?!

Reluctantly, I accepted the fact that I’d have to remain miserable and alone for the rest of the day. Then, just as I decided to escape into a film – which is almost as bad as escaping into booze, frankly – something very unusual happened. The electricity went off.

I’d been a bit weepy before, I must admit. Throughout the day, rage would mingle seductively with self-pity and my face would crinkle and my eyes would wet themselves. But I stopped myself with a sharp word and a healthy exhortation to pull myself together, like a tennis player battling a tie-break.

But when the electricity went, it finished me off. It was just getting dark. The electricity board said they’d have to send someone out. They said it might take 3-4 hours. I lit a couple of candles, heated some more stew on the gas stove and wept.

In the end it was back on within two hours, but my God, it’s been a miserable day.

I tell you though, I honestly feel better just to have talked it through. This is why I need therapy.

Now, housekeeping.

The solution to the phenomenally popular Bookscan quiz from yesterday was - you'll kick yourselves - this:



(Bad luck, Sudders. It’s really not been your week. 863!!!)

What else? Nah, fuck it, that’ll do. Rachel Getting Married has just arrived in a magical torrent of bits so I’m going to stay up and watch that. That’s about mad people, isn’t it? Cool.

Back soon with neurotic talk about weight loss and a possible cure for breast cancer.

Bonne nuit les petits!