It happened. I am not proud of it. The green-eyed monster reared its ugly head and sent me into a jealous rage, complete with fire-breathing hostility. It collided with my pent up genie-in-a-bottle and the result was, well, beautiful.
I am not a jealous type. Do you ever notice how anyone who says that follows it with, “But”? OK, so I am not jealous but I had a situation recently that rattled me. I didn’t see it coming, but wow, it shook me up.
It’s not what you’re thinking. The Carpenter had nothing to do with it. I cannot remember the last time one of us felt insecure about the other, probably because we know nobody in their right minds would want to get mixed up with either of us. The Carpenter’s only role was to bear witness, front row centre, watching me spiral in a hot mess of anger and tears before doing what he always does, saying the right things to make it better. Sigh. That’s the beautiful part and you want to hear the nitty, gritty, dirty bits, don’t you? You can’t help it. You’re human. We love crisis and pain in other people.
I’ll humour you. This was a personal issue concerning someone I admire in some ways, yet like to slap with my boot in other ways. Someone for whom the grass always seems greener, life is easier, good things happen too without seemingly being appreciated. That is my bias, you understand. It might not actually be true, but it’s true to me, so play along. Once again, the Gods of Success smiled on this person, while my own efforts to get to my personal finish line seemed fraught with potholes. I was happy for this person (she said through gritted teeth), but I also felt frustrated, bitter, green-eyed jealousy. I’m sure you cannot relate. You would never be so immature (right?).
What a silly wave of childish, insecure emotion. It’s embarrassing to admit really. My self-contained genie bottle had been shaken up hard. Bubbles were gushing to the surface. Good girls don’t explode, I told myself. Nice people push down, fizz out, maintain composure, do the right thing. Stick a cork in it.
Yet it was raw energy happening. Before I could feel rational, I exploded, popped the cork and lost my marbles, sort of like a balloon filled with air, when pinched fingers set it free. I zoomed about my bedroom pitching a right proper fit, hot tears and sexy nose drippings included. It was a pure adrenaline assault of passionate anger. I hurled out words out that were real and honest. I didn’t even need to swear. In all, this outrage lasted five glorious minutes.
Here is the beauty of it: I was angry and loving it. I felt alive, healthy, exhilarated. I wasn’t hurting anyone. In fact, true to form, I even yelled about how I wished this person well, because they deserved good things (karma is a bitch, but I’m not). You see, even in my asinine behaviour, I am still nice. Ugh.
I had no idea how freeing anger can be. Sometimes we want the world to acknowledge us, but we forget to acknowledge ourselves first. We don’t even accept how we feel or the right to feel at all.
Enough. Pop your cork. When we love ourselves, it’s easier to love those we secretly want to hit with our boots.