Monday Dare: I need protection. From myself.

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you’d like to see the complete list of Monday Dares or find out more about its origin.

This week: Anger management

My number one desire in life is to be less of a hoarder. I also want my daughter to grow up to be a profoundly happy person. I hope that even on the days she is feeling blue, she is surrounded by a shitload of people who appreciate her inner-core and help her to see that this too shall pass. But that’s a hope I have for someone else. I really want to focus on me right now, so yes, my number one desire in life is to stop amassing mounds of useless junk.

I’m guilty of hoarding objects. My animal pencil topper collection is pretty intense. The entire collection is housed in an airtight see-through container because most of them have a distinct yet subtle scent, and every time I open the lid, I am greeted with a cornucopia of fruity goodness. It’s very appealing to me.

But more than my collections of pencil toppers and rap lyric t-shirts and metallic tinsel, the “thing” that occupies the most amount of space in my life is the dirty pile of anger I have stacked, one rage-filled thought after another, in the middle place where my heart should be.

I’m just angry as fuck.

It’s hard to recall anything I learned in high school which is understandable because I wasn’t really paying attention, but I do remember learning in biology that 60% of the human body is comprised of water. This confuses me, because if I had to guesstimate, I’d say that anger makes up roughly 81% of who I am. Apparently, every drop of liquid coursing through my body (plus a few organs) has a high level of fuck you, motherfucker.

I’ve been amassing rage like it’s currency.

I no longer trust myself. Sometimes, I call Harv to ask if I “should” be angry about something because I’m guilty of overreacting to small offenses, and maybe even worse than that, I don’t react at all in some situations where I should voice concern and disapproval.

Over the weekend, a random dude pinched my cheek. Now that I’m thinking about it, I feel a little embarrassed. I must look like the kind of person you can cheek pinch. Would anyone dare take a chunk of Ludacris’s face meat between their thumb and pointer finger? I DON’T THINK SO. This man didn’t think I was participating enough in the group conversation and pinched my cheek. I stood up because I wanted to gain better leverage and force before I smashed my hand into his temple.

My cousin stepped in and stood just inches away from my face before telling me to leave immediately. Which I did. Because I was enraged and because I felt such an overwhelming desire to be physically confrontational and because I didn’t trust myself.

Violence is never, ever the answer. Never. Ever. Ever. I’m ashamed and riddled with guilt that my thoughts could even venture into that territory. Yet, I am still seething.

I’ve resisted going back into therapy because I’m afraid that once all of my anger is gone, there will just be an expansive hole. I could, of course, fill it with other things like arrogance or laziness. Laziness is the front runner right now because I already have a lot of experience with it, and it just seems to come naturally.

I’m enrolling in an anger management class this week. I want to be a better example for my daughter. Also, I want to stay out of jail.

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image via Meme Machine

Monday Dare: Thug Wife

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. Click on the link to see the complete list of Monday Dares or to learn more about its origin.

This week: Become a rap educationalist

When I stumble across something especially noteworthy, I like to share it with Harv. It’s my way of saying, “I love you, and I think of you first.” Most of the time, we use the convenience of email to send links or pictures, but if the thing I want to share happens to be a song, I will wait until we are face-to-face. Music has always ruled my life, and I want to build moments in my marriage through hi-hats and modulated bass lines.

Harv and Cal were in the middle of practicing some sort of guitar and vocal gospel duet last night when I broke up their Father Daughter Moment with my latest find, Ace Hood’s “Bugatti.” I’m normally not judgmental about rap lyrics, but it seemed a little suspicious to me that anyone could just “wake up in a new Bugatti.” Could that happen to me too? Am I just hoping for things that will never come?

These seemed like important questions, and I trust Harv to give me the hard truth. He’s not afraid to be honest, even when it ends up hurting our love. Like that one time four years into our marriage when he admitted to me that he had never listened to one entire Tupac song.

Now that I’m thinking back, I’m fairly certain that his admission wasn’t just happenstance. He waited until we were in public. We had just eaten a delicious yet reasonably-priced lunch. I was well-rested after eight uninterrupted hours of sleep. That dude planned this shit out like a boss.

Have you ever walked into a pillar in your living room even though you’ve lived in the same house for almost three years and it was daylight and the impact caused so much pain in the middle part of your forehead and the tip of your nose that your vision went blank for just a second?

It felt just like that. But in my heart.

It’s impossible to know everything about your partner when you marry him after dating for just 18 days, but still, you think the details will just work themselves out because our love is so goddamn strong and ain’t nothing and nobody gonna tear us apart and I don’t need a perfect person, just someone who is perfect for me. 

I moved across the country to a town where I knew no one else but my new husband and into a home that I had never even laid eyes on until I become his missus. I missed my friends and my family and the comfort of familiarity.

He told me he liked cats. I took that in stride. He told me he liked the thermostat at 68. I froze my fucking ass off but gazed at him through the icicles forming on my eyelashes with affection. He admitted that he didn’t use coupons, even when they were attached to the item that he was purchasing. I still kissed him before bed that night.

But when he looked through my playlist and repeated name after name in a confused tone, “DJ Khaled? Rick Ross? Three 6 Mafia? E-40? Camp Lo?” SHIT JUST GOT TOO REAL.

I am not a rap pusher, but occasionally, I would share little snippets here and there, just to whet his appetite. I felt like a failure after Harv’s Tupac confession, but still, I just kept right on.

It’s time to step it up a notch. Rap music blasting through our crib, all day eryday. Thug Wife. Thug Life.

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