I am by almost all measures a gentle and patient person. Loving, kind, and generous, able to get along well and with nearly anyone. Utterly vanilla. I’m a librarian, for fuck’s sake.
Most who know me, though, will also recognize that I can get very irritable from time to time, especially on the job. No biggie there. Everyone can. Just part of being human.
What’s disturbing, however, is how much seething, latent RAGE I perpetually carry that no one perceives. Most of the time even I am not aware of it. Only in the past year or so have I come to recognize this about myself. It’s not directed at anyone or anything in particular: fury doesn’t need a target or a purpose.
I’m not sure where exactly it comes from, but I have a theory that the cocktail is two parts severe chronic anxiety, one part boredom, and one part broken heart.
I want so much to be a good father and husband, and I’m TERRIFIED of failure. I’ve sobbed so many times in sheer terror over whether or not I’ll fail my daughter in this regard. That kind of anxiety will crush you.
At the same time, I’m bored shitless by my job. Although there are some responsibilities and aspects of it that are challenging, I spend half the day working the circ desk: basically doing the job a trained monkey could do. $65K in student loan debt to be a library desk clerk. I’m paid ridiculously well, so I really can’t complain, but I feel so bored and useless. The only nice part of my day is seeing my friend and getting to chat with her.
Which brings me to…
Heartbreak. I have no real friends outside of work. My only lifelong friend broke off contact with me when I moved to Texas. It became clear that for years I had been nothing more than a convenience to him. And now, given my responsibilities as a father, husband, homeowner, employee, citizen, commuter, bipolar patient etc, I just don’t have time to make new friends. Plus, in some ways, I feel profoundly alone, even at home. I do a massive amount of housework, without a lot of help from M. It’s so stressful, and I feel resentful. Oh, and nine years later, I still haven’t recovered from those two weeks of combined Sub and benzo withdrawal. I was traumatized. That torched my heart and mind into a gory mess of throbbing melted ash. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t ask for any of that.
Sometimes I fantasize about suicide, I’m so angry.