I remember my very first cognizant experience with anger not paying off.
I was living in the farm house on 90th avenue and I had the entire upstairs to myself. (I ended up having many introductory adulthood lessons in this room, including the loss of my virginity, but that's not what this story is about.) I had a really big bedroom with tons of space and 2 beds and in the corner was my favorite thing I owned: a sweet, by 90's teenager standards, stereo with remote control.
This was long before I found pleasure in shopping for endless amounts of clothing, shoes, make up and accessories I didn't need. I really didn't have a lot of use for many material things, I was totally involved in other pursuits. (so much smarter back then). The stereo was a gift, in fact, I didn't even ask for it. I got it because I would leave whatever previous radio I had on all night and my dad didn't like that so he looked for one with a remote that I could time and turn off. I loved it. I loved it so hard. This stereo made mix tapes like nobody's biz and played Prince and Boyz II Men or Open House Party with John Garabedian at decibels offensive to most human ears while I perfected "spiral curls" on many an occasion. Anyway...
One day, and the best part is that I don't remember what it was even about, I got so angry that I snatched the remote off the table holding the stereo and fast pitched that mofo into the wall so hard it exploded. It was one of those moments in life you read about where I didn't even know what I was doing until it was over. I basically blacked out with madness. And this used to happen to me quite often. My temper was such that I would seriously physically lash out and act a fool. I slapped people, threw glasses, kicked people out of cars in the middle of nowhere; I was like a Real Housewife of New Jersey before they knew what table flipping was! When my breathing slowed slightly and consciousness slid back into my brain, I looked down at the remote shrapnel and realized I had only hurt myself in that situation. Nobody was there to witness the display, nobody else used that remote, I didn't teach anyone a lesson with this act. Not even myself at the time.
I'd go on to have several more spectacular outburst in the future before finally getting choked out by my best friend and learning my lesson, but I really never forgot sitting on my floor picking up pieces of plastic and rubber buttons and gluing it all back together. I felt idiotic. And regretful. And I decided breaking my own shit was not the best way to express myself. Slapping people was still an option, but my stuff? Nope.
It has been literally at least 2 decades since this happened and I can remember it like yesterday. Now, when my fingers curl around a champagne flute in rage or I can feel my shoulders start to tense and my breathing start to rise and the blood vessels in my cheeks filling up with warmth from the incredibly stupid things that happen around me, I remember how I almost had to actually get out of bed to turn of Boyz II Men and I shut that shit down. I can't remember the last time I had "an incident" even though sometimes I get cute-crooked-smiled-at after a particularly infuriating comment in anticipation of just such an event. Way to be, me!
(I also sprayed perfume on my cat in this room and thought I almost killed him with it, but he went on to lead a really long life. Way to be, Mr. Cat!)
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