Rage
by Peter
McMillan
It started
sometime in my late forties. Things just set me
off. Things that didn't bother me before now do.
They're threatening, because they seem directed
at me. It's as if I'm being singled out to be
insulted everywhere I turn.
When I'm
driving, it's other drivers. They cut me off or
refuse to let me in.. Their car horns scream at
me, and the drivers make faces and gesture
obscenely with their mouths wide open. When I'm a
pedestrian, it's other pedestrians bumping into
me, shoving me, shouting at me, tromping on my
feet, or stepping on my heels. When I'm a client,
the talking machines misdirect me and I wander
into and out of dead ends until I finally fall
through the administrative trap door. When I'm a
customer, it's out of stock, not under warranty,
or not available as advertised. When I'm a
citizen, my email, telephone, and banking
activities are under surveillance. When I'm at
home, things just fall around me—a glass
falls, bounces off the counter and crashes to the
floor and among the glass shards is the medicine
that I thought I had taken this morning.
This is all
new for me—a change. I've changed, and while
I sometimes wonder if the world—other
people—is at fault, I feel like I can see
myself becoming different. Occasionally now, I
catch a glimpse of myself as if I were standing
there beside myself, and I wonder how I became
this stranger. It's common, so I've heard, that
children fear growing up, fearing that they will
become someone that they would find unpleasant,
like a grown-up they know. I remember looking in
the bathroom mirror when I was six-, seven-, or
eight-years-old and imagining whether I would
like the person I was going to become in 20 years.
Looking back, I'm sure I would have frightened
myself.
My reactions
are becoming wildly disproportionate to what
triggered them. I do see that. I yell at the dog
next door and scream at the neighbourhood kids
and shout at the old man on the bicycle and swear
at the call centre representative and break
dishes and throw books and newspapers and slam
the phone down and rip the mail to pieces. A very
small part of my mind is conscious of what I'm
doing, but it's not enough—
Ok, Mr.
Slightham. That’s our time for today.
We’ll pick up here next week. Have a great
day!
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