I've been getting a lot of letters from friends who want to know if I really punched a clerk in the throat, as I stated in my last entry. No, I did not. I'm concerned that so many people would think that I'm capable of such a thing. My history of violence is a very short one, and it doesn't include living things. I even refuse to squash affable spiders that seem determined to perch on me whilst I sleep. Not too long ago, I was woken up by a tickle on my cheek. When I urgently brushed at my face, I discovered a small, white spider. Even though I was alone, I acted like Ghandi as I said something like, "Oh, did you get lost little guy?" and moved the spider onto my jacket across the room.
By all rights, I should have crushed that little fucker. My heart was racing. It really scared the shit out of me. It's one thing to be hanging around the tub. It's quite another to go loitering around my nose and mouth. I couldn't get back to sleep for the rest of the night. Anxiety makes it hard to relax in the best of circumstances. Having trouble going back to sleep after such a discovery isn't indicative of a sleeping disorder, it's a perfectly logical reaction to having a spider walk all over your face on a voyage of discovery.
But I didn't kill it is my point. I'm irritated, anxious, depressed, and immersed in ennui most of the time. Even so, I would never hit someone for that. A payphone was once destroyed, a chair was thrown into an oil painting, swears have been yelled, muffins thrown, and banisters ripped off the wall. I admit to all those acts of violence against objects, but I have the scruples not to smack a person. Certainly not an animal.
Earlier today, I was at Lahey Clinic in Burlington. It was lunchtime, and the cafeteria was very busy. People swirled all around me, and all I wanted to do was buy a $2 bottle of water. As I approached the register, a young woman was walking in front of me and wouldn't get out of my way. She was looking for someone, and was paying no attention to where I was going. I was in the middle of a ferocious panic attack, and felt it in my chest and legs, and I had trouble catching my breath. All the while, this fuck-nut just kept almost bumping into me without paying attention. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and said, "Would you get the fuck out of my fucking way? What the fuck."
That's as violent as I get. Sure, I wanted to jam my finger in her eye, or pour hot coffee down the crack of her ass, or just push her really, really hard into the salad bar. But I didn't. Sure, i wanted to grab her by the tits and bite her nose off and then strangle her. But I didn't.
I'm not that kind of crazy. I have little doubt that my mind doesn't work as it should. If you've read this journal at all, you know that. But there is a wide gulf between G. Gordon Liddy sort of crazy and the kind of "botched and bungled" thing I have going. An ex-girlfriend once said to me, "You're funny and wicked smart, but your mind is off the leash." I took it as a compliment at the time. Now, I'm not so sure.
I "wrote" a song in my head that goes like this: "A plantain's just a strange banana," and it just repeats over and over again. Odd, yes, but fear not good people.
If I keep telling myself that mental illness is fun, I'm hoping that one day it will be. Onward!
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