Every decision you make could be made from either somewhere in the knee-jerk realm of your unconscious or with the unmitigated, laser-focused precision of the present moment. Yes. Every. Single. Decision. I’m talking about from the pants you choose, to the socks you select, to the choice to sit or stand while putting that stuff on. Yes, you even have the option to greet the mail lady who is delivering yet a certified letter from the Tax Man in full-on, bat-shit rage mode or not. I understand, full-on, bat-shit rage mode doesn’t feel like a choice. But I have learned, or rather with effort, retrained my knowing that I can choose.
As I said in my last article (thank you, Community, for your encouragement BTW!), when I have hit my limit of victim thinking that I am at the mercy of assholes, I realize I am not at mercy of anyone! I am only making the choice to listen to the voice of anxiety and not the grounded one of my empowered self. This means that no one, not my boss, not the program manager, not my parents, and not even the mail lady (who I love by the way--in fact she always shares in the excitement to see when I get from weekly Amazon deliveries, lol), the bearer of the Tax Man’s bad news.
This morning, only half dressed: bra-less in a ribbed tank and pajama pants, being trailed by my 4-year-old son, who is already noisily testing my not-as-yet caffeinated limits, a substitute mail male came to the house at precisely 9:54 am! Anyone who knows me, knows I don’t suffer anyone, much less fools, until after 10. Blearily, I see this poor bastard has the unfortunate job of bringing me yet another certified letter from the Tax Man! In this moment, I decided to not challenge the volcanic fury welling up through my being, threatening to erupt out the top of my head.
Having given my angry free rein, my rage-soaked brain immediately runs the following scenarios: A) Rip this guy’s head off and tell him to get off my porch like a croutchty, old timey coot , B) smile and say, “Fuck you very much, but not receiving Tax-agrams from the IRAss today!” (lol), C) Hide and let the poor bastard keep trying to deliver his hate mail day after day (good luck to anyone trying to catch me when I don’t want to be found. I’m harder to get a hold of than a greased pig at a county fair), or D) Ask who it is from, and begrudgingly and abrasively accept.
I went with D. I try to suppress the anger and rage that physically engulfs me in these moments -- my hands shake, it’s hard to breathe, and in the past, I would implode, turning the anger in on myself so as not to harm or worry anyone else. I’m not that person anymore. Now--for better or worse, I let the rage rip.
Already saturated with frustration and fury, my son suddenly “decides” he needs 50 different things, intoning, “MOMOMOMOM,” the teeth-grinding opposite of its more soothing counterpart, OMMMM, while I am standing off with this miserable fool. Probably in an effort to find a way away from this tension, my brain takes this moment to start thinking of all the emails and other engineer shit waiting for me. I felt defeated and bombarded. I know that there is no reason to lose my shit because the tax situation has been settled. The letter is an indication that some asshat at the IRS has yet to update their friggin’ records. Regardless, seeing the letter, though, sends me to moon! And giving this guy, who is just doing his job, an attitude, especially since I can see clearly that he is intimidated by my demeanor is just making shit worse.
I go outside to get the mail during my rage, and some idiot driving an 18 wheeler beeps at me and follows up with a Facebook message, ‘why do you look so angry?’ Last week some kid came up to me and asked me for a cigarette, told me I’m beautiful and said we should hang out, on his mom’s couch, I go to sit outside and read my books and BE. LEFT. ALONE. And yet every 30 seconds some desolate loser is staring at me from his car window, watching me, eye raping me. Again, I just want to BE-LEFT-ALONE!
So why am I not checking myself? 1) do you like to be bothered first thing in the morning? In case you forgot, my son and I were barely out of bed. 2) I hadn’t even a chance to make myself my comforting elixir of morning coffee. 3a), the thing that is bothering me is a stranger, and 3b) he’s bringing a certified letter from the IRS! A letter that I know it means yet more energy and likely additional work to my already task-filled day!
Happy to have uncovered and understand where my internal rage came from and why, I calm down. With my new-found perspective, I place the pretty letter from the Tax Man on my mantle, where it waits to be ceremonially burned. Then I start to write a story about how I am right and the Tax Man is wrong, and most importantly -- no one can bother me unless I choose to let them bother me.
We as humans become so easily swept up in the moment. In order for me to take the time to get things done and really have an impact, it is extremely important that I do the things I need to ensure I don’t lose my shit in the moment. For me that means, I need to make time for myself. To do otherwise drains me and prevents me from selecting the best, most effective insults (lol). It is far more effective for me to feel the rage, take notes on said rage, put the notes in one central location, and access them later when I am calm. Making this choice makes all obstacles surmountable.
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