I have a temper.
The past few years have taught me how to let things go. And most days, I’m good at it — superb, even — I’m breezy about it. I let things go.
And then other days: I. Let. Things. Go.
And then on days, like today, well, that power escapes me. I am the opposite of letting things go. I transform into the Mayor of Holding.It.In. which, too quickly (for I’m out of practice now) turns into the Mistress of the Pot that Boiled Over.
A pot, you see, never boils over just because the water gets hot and just because the lid is on. It requires a three specific things:
- Sustained heat
- Just enough liquid
- The lid must stay firmly on
How do these things translate into real life? Simple:
- The hits just keep on coming
- The hits are body-blows; they’re heavy
- You keep trying to hold it in
To be frank, it’s the last one that ties it all up. If you had released the pot (read: if you had vented your spleen), the hits could keep on coming, and they could be heavy, but they wouldn’t turn into an explosion.
But when you try to tamp down, to contain, to pretend that:
- You’re not really angry
- You’re not really irritated
- This is perfectly okay
- You can ignore it
- It will just blow over
It sneaks up on you, slips by your defenses, and you find yourself taking it out on poor, unsuspecting souls who don’t know what they did (probably little) to earn your hell-spawned wrath (it is a thing of great and terrible beauty) but they would most certainly (if they’re able) get out of the way of your warpath.
Today, I boiled over. I lost my temper. I have, at work, been letting something go on for three months and been attempting to play nice, and be a good sport about it all, and–
Three months of time, wasted.
Oh, the rage was mighty, indeed.