I’m an abuser . . . . I have anger issues. I can’t stop the fury from welling up inside when I perceive that I’m being purposely messed with, and that’s when I lash out violently.
Who do I abuse? . . . Oh, no no, I need to explain myself better. I don’t abuse people. I would never harm another sole, most especially the ones I love. It is things I am talking about . . . I abuse objects. Objects such as a weed-wacker that won’t start.
For some reason, I imagine that the weed-wacker has decided not to start simply to taunt me and make my life difficult. It laughs at my grunting and sweating as I repeatedly pull the chord for five solid minutes . . . . stopping only to swear and catch my breath. I mean, I know that the weed wacker doesn’t really have the ability to decide to make me angry or laugh at me . . . . At least when I actually stop and think about it.
But when objects like said weed-wacker decide that they are indeed going to act unruly, I can tend to go into a rage, or become spiteful. I want to make the weed wacker feel regret for its disobedience so I punish it by beating it to death with a golf club. Sometimes I laugh and sing weed wacker beating songs while I pummel it into oblivion.
When I load the dish washer, there are always those one or two pans that won’t fit into the dishwasher and require that I wash them by hand. It makes me mad. I’m not sure if I’m mad at the pans for being too big, or at the dishwasher for being too small. In any case, it’s the pans that receive the punishment.
But unlike the weed wacker, I choose to punish the pans with mental cruelty by humiliating them. I let them sit on the counter naked and unwashed for days . . . . Even weeks. . . . . Stewing in their own filth . . . . A spectacle for all other items in the kitchen to see. Sometimes while I’m emptying the dishwasher, I parade the clean dishes slowly by the oversized large pans and let the clean dishes ridicule them to add to their shame.
The worst offender is the computer. I know it hates me and I hate it. It likes to pick a certain key on the keyboard and designate it the “erase the story you’ve been working on for two hours” key. And apparently it chooses a different key to perform that function every day, because I can’t for the life of me figure out what I touched to erase my story.
It likes to freeze up in the middle of my moments of feverish inspiration. It infuriates me. I bang on top of the tower. I violently run the mouse across the top of the computer desk. I attack the keyboard with all ten fingers typing rapidly and randomly.
The computer strikes back in its own time by remembering all the keys that I hit during my tantrum and executing them all simultaneously causing a huge computer mess.
But I have the last laugh. I grab the computers power chord and yank it from the socket with a loud, “HAAA”. I just know that this must cause the computer pain. Even my computer genius friend has told me that it’s not good for them to do that.
Maybe I need counseling. Maybe I need medication. At least I’m willing to admit that I’m partly responsible for this dysfunction. However, I’m expecting that all of the objects in this house will step up and admit to their contribution to the problem if we are to make any positive changes in our relationships.