EMOTIONAL DISTEMPER
How Angry Can We Get Before We Explode?
On being afraid to find out
Mouth dry as dust, head throbbing because I was “overserved” the night before, I struggle to wrestle the top off of a bottle of store-brand Pedialyte.
The top one-third of the friggin’ bottle is encased in plastic wrap so thick, I have to scrape it with a knife in order to create a tear for my fingers to gain purchase. Never one to handle sharp objects skillfully, I must be careful at my task. But, I am so thirsty.
Cursing, I stab this beast repeatedly until finally, I’m able to rip the rest of the plastic off and toss it to the side where our cat, Lorna, immediately pounces on it like it’s her new, favorite toy.
I yank the plastic out from under her paws and toss it in the trash.
But, I can’t flood my dehydrated body with the electrolytes it so desperately needs just yet. There’s still the protective layer of EXTRA HEAVY DUTY aluminum foil-backed cardboard underneath the cap that requires surgical invention.
As Lorna watches me struggle, I feel like crying. Because I’m the biggest fuck-up on earth. One with a serious masochistic bent. It’s not the bottle’s fault that I attempt to muffle my near-constant anger and disappointment in ways that do me absolutely no good.
But, still, I hate the manufacturers. What were they thinking? What am I about to slurp up? Liquid Kruggerands? I need this and I need it, now.
There is no teeny lip on the protective cap that will allow me to peel it away, so I have to stab a hole in the top and then spread it with my fingers so I can finally wrap my lips around the fucker and drink.
Something has happened to me. It’s becoming ever more difficult to tamp down the slow boil that has turned me into a human cauldron. As a rational being, I understand that this is not healthy, and I need to get to the bottom of it.
Turning sixty-nine in April has affected me in ways I can’t get a handle on. No. Let me be honest. I. Can’t. Handle. It.
“It” being the aging process. There’s nothing enjoyable about it, other than the ability to remain vertical for a little while longer. It’s scary and often demeaning, and always, always a reminder that the clock is ticking, folks. And that second hand is spinning out of control.
As a screenwriter, I can’t help but view my life as a film, a slow reel on an eternal loop that runs in the back of my brain as I wash dishes, run on the treadmill, pay bills, or even, while writing, here.
I told one of my dear friends here that I broke down bawling the other day, quite suddenly. Every sad thought I’d ever had washed over me at once and I allowed myself to wallow in that sadness. As someone who doesn’t by nature cry easily, unless I’m struck by a story involving animals, the happy tales as well as the monstrous, I was stunned by my own lack of control.
I cried out of sheer disappointment. For so many things. So many times I’ve disappointed myself or allowed others to disappoint me, whether that was their intent or not. For all the times I’ve been let down and not spoken out. Because that’s what people do. They let us down, and every time we allow that to happen, without addressing it, we’re letting ourselves down.
Resentment takes up quite a bit of space, I’ve discovered. In our heads and our hearts. Eventually, resentment, along with anger and disappointment, causes our bodies to rebel and when we’ve had enough, to break down, to succumb to an errant cell just waiting for us to yield to our own destruction.
Yes. Since tacking on another year, the last in my sixth decade, I can’t seem to sort out the rest of my life. And the simplest things, like struggling to open that bottle of sugary, electrolyte-enhanced liquid, incite a fit of anger so unreasonable, that I question my emotional state.
But, then it wanes, only to return on the heels of another obstacle, another disappointment.
I’m disappointed in myself. Because I feel like I’ve failed at so many things. There. I buried the lead, yet again.
There are relatively simple decisions that I can’t get a handle on. Since losing our cat Dooley in June, to what our vet believes was cancer, I can’t shed that feeling of extreme loss. Even though we’ve experienced this pain before, many times before, it feels different, now.
I look at our remaining two, Conor and Lorna, and feel so blessed, Yet, something is missing. Throughout the day, Conor walks around crying. He’s always been a wailer when he wants something, but this time, it’s different. Physically, he’s just fine, so I sense he’s searching for Dooley. It breaks my heart.
Do we adopt again, or are we too old? I know I’ve been down this road before, here, but once again, I can’t pull the trigger on a decision. Yes, or no. No, or yes. What am I so fearful of? And is this how I want to spend the remainder of my years?
If we brought another cat into our lives, I would be the primary caregiver, as I am, now. I can handle that. But I can’t handle the thought of our dying and leaving our cats to…something I can’t even think about.
A few very kind people have sent me links to organizations that care for pets after their owners' demise, and I appreciate this more than I can say. Still, I can’t seem to figure it out.
When did decision-making get so damned hard?
As I can’t figure out my so-called dream of becoming a screenwriter. Why am I still holding onto this? I am weary of promoting myself. Fuck that. I want someone to recognize what I have to offer and go to bat for me. I can’t do everything all the damn time. And that, too, makes me angry.
At this juncture, I could stand in the middle of Wilshire Boulevard, head stuck up my ass with a script in one hand and still, I wouldn’t get a read. That’s how tough this game is and I’ve been at it over twenty years, so this, I know.
I’m angry that I see substandard writers reap undeserved rewards on this platform. I’ve been stunned and frustrated at the rash of stories trumpeting phenomenal earnings, whether they be inflated, or not. My brain cannot accept this. It refuses to take in that the most mundane of writers pull in thousands of dollars a month. How can this be? Was life always this way or has mediocrity become something to strive for? That certainly appears to be the case here in the U.S., where TikTok has trumped that quaint compilation of a writer’s blood, sweat, and tears known as a “book.”
I began writing here in November 2018 and have yet to experience “going viral.” Nor have I made what anyone would call a “living.”
Yet, I’m still here and that is on me. At least it keeps the juices flowing and I’m running low these days. But, I’m going to use whatever trickles remain to write a book. Fuck Hollywood.
I’m angry that I allow myself to become incensed at the ignorance and intolerance all around me. Lately, my fury has been directed at LinkedIn, as my readers well know, and I apologize for my fixation on that cesspool.
I’m angry at people who are offended when you call them out on their bullshit. So much so, that they’ll gather a tribe of other, like-minded bullshitters and launch a full-on attack in order to assuage any hits to their tender sensibilities.
I’m angry that marriage is so fucking hard to get right. And, that I can’t ease my husband’s depression because I’m so deep into my own.
Please know that I don’t feel sorry for myself. There’s no need for that. I’m just “calling out “me,” for the exposed nerve that I’ve become. You may recognize this in yourself. That, and the inability to experience sheer joy, for one whole day. Perhaps I’ll set that as a goal.
Given all this, is it healthier to release the anger and disappointment? To purge ourselves in order to ease the mind and in turn, the body? Or should we bottle it up and wait for the inevitable explosion that will turn us inside out and expose the rabid creature within?
That sounds like the beginning of a horror story. Maybe I’ll write it.
© Sherry McGuinn, 2022. All Rights Reserved.
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Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.
