This is a repost from about a year ago that I made when I was furious with myself. Who hasn’t felt that way now and again?
I’m angry. My chest is a clenched fist of ire, squeezing the imagined embodiment of my own self-inflected debacle. My brow is heavy, and my eye brows crowd the bridge of my nose. My eyes peer out from beneath like furious green flames, boring holes into my monitor. My teeth, hidden behind a foul sneer, grind together, as if in futility tearing the stupidity with which I’ve behaved away from the situation.
I’ve been careless. I’ve neglected a variable. Several variables, actually, and in my calm, cool, collective idiocy, I put all balls aloft, expecting to juggle them away. Evidentially, one sat unseen and untouched, and it’s become an issue.
It could have been avoided. I’d been given several opportunities to cast the remaining ball into motion, but some how I skillfully managed to avoid my responsibility, masterfully, even subconsciously procrastinating it into malignancy. I’d like to stand, raging and growling, eye to eye with myself, and punch myself in the face. I’d like to knock myself clean out for a week, and perhaps pound a little sense into my dense, gigantic head.
As the sulfuric self-aggression subsides, I slide into a weary, depressed melancholia. Having righteously beaten my ethereal self satisfactorily into state of oblivion, I begin to think. Thoughts of retribution turn restorative. I’ve managed to fail in my duties, to a point where I’m unable to rectify my situation by myself. I shall hence forth be of no use, at least as far as a resolution, and it rankles. I must ask for help, and the very idea turns my stomach. Be it pride, be it unreasoning self-expectation, I cringe at the thought of someone else sweating my debts from their pores. I don’t know anyone on life who has a spot on their plate for my just desserts, yet still, I need to ask them to make room.
I’m ashamed. I’m embarrassed. I’m undeserving. I’m almost hoping they tell me they’re unable to help, so I thus avoid causing them the grief of picking up my pieces, all the while wondering if I’m likely to repeat the mistake, and further inconvenience them, possibly to the point where they’d like a shot at me too.
Perhaps tomorrow the negative energy and the acrid storm cloud over my head will have ebbed enough that I may see a path that had been obscured. For now, I’ve little room in my mind for hope. I deserve the mental blaze of self-depreciative fury that I’ve lit within. Perhaps in enduring it I will have taught myself a lesson.