Hyperion-X

Sunday, August 31, 2003

992 - Bloodrage

Hyperion X⁹⁹²

Bloodrage

An existential journey from extreme anger to wisdom; well, partial wisdom; well, I wasn’t mad anymore

PROLOGUE: This happened Thursday night, and I wrote it all down while it was happening, in a stream-of-consciousness sort of way. After electing to send it, I also decided to send it word-for-word the way I wrote it. I spell checked it, but grammar, pacing, style, and all the usual work I put into post-production is missing here. What you’re left with is much less professional than my usual standards, but also much more raw and real. The way I wrote it was the way it really happened, and what I was feeling while it did.

I can’t remember being this angry for this long a time. Normally I never get angry. Even when I appear angry I’m usually faking. Sometimes I get righteously angry (or would that be more accurately described as self-righteously), but even that only lasts a few seconds if it isn’t an act in the first place.

Occasionally I can make myself angry over one injustice or another, but even that is fleeting and transitory. I very rarely actually react in anger, and stay angry.

Like now.

Something happened to me, close to two hours ago, it must be. Within minutes the pit of my stomach felt like I was sick as a dog. My vision has been occasionally filming over in red, and it’s a good thing no one is here with me, because I’m actually scared how I might lash out. That’s how angry I am: psychotically angry, seethingly angry.

Of course, I’m still a writing whore, and a small part of me is fascinated by my reactions; so foreign as they are to me. So, I’m down here writing this all out right now. I can’t even spell words right, my hands are shaking so bad, although perfectionist that I am, I’m sure I’ll fix that before it gets to anyone.

I suppose you might tell me to quit focusing on it, and try to do something else. I thought of that, and I was trying to watch “The Royal Tenenbaums,” but Hyperion’s Rule of Movies #14 says never watch a film while in a bad mood, and after an hour, I realized I couldn’t appreciate one bit of humor. Besides, maybe I’ll actually get over this if I sit here and write about it like it’s just another column.

What makes it even worse is how trivial a thing it is to get mad over. Just something stupid somebody said who didn’t know the whole story. I wonder to myself what it is that actually made me get this way. People say dumb things to me all the time. Quite often people don’t know the whole story. Hell, most of my mailbag is described by those two qualities. The conspirator in me thinks it must be something bigger, tapping some deep root, to get me to feel this way.

It’s a little scary and helpless, feeling this way. I now understand why people kill. If I came upon my wife, let’s say, in bed with another man, and I had this much anger come up in me, I think I might kill him, or maybe both of them. That’s a scary thing to admit, let alone write down on a page. Maybe I won’t end up sending this out. Then again, I always get mad at myself for not being more honest, and really opening up, so maybe this is my chance to prove whether I have the balls to follow through with it.

I told my sister once, “We’re defined by the things which tear us apart.” That’s a bit simplistic and by no means complete, but it’s true for what it’s worth. I don’t want to be someone who gets mad by little things. I hate that behavior in other people. I also don’t want to be someone who takes out their bad day on other people, but I very much fear that if I were in company they would get both barrels.

That’s metaphoric, in case anyone is thinking of calling the police. Besides which, I’m still alone, so unless I go start taking out some stuffed animals (which apart from being smug bastards who rarely answer my questions, I really have nothing against them. In fact, they are often my only friends), the world is safe.

Okay. I’m trying to think of other things. I’m talking to my friend, who was also aggrieved in this, and he’s not mad at all. I realize I’m overreacting. I can’t understand why this is getting to me. What else can I think of? Nothing. I can’t think of a damn thing other than rage.

I thought it might be a good idea to write the person who caused all this; let them know calmly and rationally that while I have as good a sense of humor as the next guy, this was going too far. And yet, I can’t figure out why it’s going too far. It’s not as if they never said or did anything stupid before. Hell, they make a practice of it.

Besides, I don’t think I’m capable of a rational letter at this point. I’ve tried four times. My first try started with “Who the fuck are you to say…” Further attempts went downhill from there. Basically I don’t think I can compose a letter without “Who the fuck,” “What the fuck,” Where the fuck,” “Why the fuck,” or promising to turn gay just to start ass raping. Yes, maybe a letter is not the direction I need to be going at this point.

I decide to put on some music. I definitely need something to fit my mood. The first thing that comes on is Boyz II Men’s cover of “Yesterday.” I have listened to that song before over and over again when I was sad, but it doesn’t work here.

I hit next (it’s on random), and it comes to Bush’s “Everything Zen.” These words don’t do much for me (I don’t even really know what the hell’s he’s talking about), but the guitar riffs seem a little better. Still, I need more. The next song is Harvey Danger’s “I’m not sick but I’m not well.” The words are good here, but the tone isn’t very angry. Dammit, now I’m getting angry with Winamp, my MP3 player.

George Michael, “Father Figure.” Great song, but I don’t think so. The Corrs, “Breathless.” Uh-huh. The next song is one just downloaded by Mercy Me called “I can only imagine.” It’s a song about what Heaven will be like, and a friend of mine swears it’s the Christian song of the decade.

If there was a dictionary of appropriateness, and you looked up what not to listen to when psychotically angry, I’m pretty sure songs about Heaven would be right up there, and this song perhaps #1. In desperation I spin the dial several more times. Britney Spears, “Hit Me Baby One More Time.” Not even if you let me videotape it.

Uncle Kracker, “Drift Away.” I have clearly not planned for this. One more time and then I’m quitting. Spin: Rage Against the Machine, “People of the Sun.” Now we’re getting somewhere. I don’t agree with anything these worthless commie-bastards have to say, but I love their anger.

Pardon me a minute while I get up from the computer and dance around while liberal morons sing about the plight of the Chicano.

[Dance break while Hyperion jumps around like a fucking idiot]

Okay, I’m done dancing, and it didn’t work. Luckily, Alannis Morrisette’s “You Oughta Know” just came on. This might be the angriest song of the ‘90s, and definitely contains the best lyrical moment (if you’ve heard the song, you know what I mean). I must dance again.

[Pause]

Okay, I can’t do this anymore. I’m going upstairs to eat something and watch “C.S.I., and I’ll come back in a little bit and see if I still feel this way.

*************************************************************

I’m back. It’s been about three hours. The anger is gone. There is still some pain in my gut, but I think it’s more the after-effects, the echo, if you will, like when your head hurts really bad and then just stops but there is still that spider web ripple that lasts a while longer.

It’s weird. I went ahead and read the words I wrote earlier, and they almost seem like a foreign language. I don’t understand how I got that way, and I can’t understand the emotion now. Of course, a lot has happened in the last three hours. For one thing, I ate some food. I have to admit, most of the time something wrong happens to me, my blood sugar is low. I’m not saying that’s the total cause, but it has to be a factor.

Also, the police came, and I made a complete ass out of myself. I’m a bit ashamed. I really respect the police. I have friends who are cops, and I know they have a tough job. It’s just that when cops are assholes to me sometimes I get a bit belligerent.

Like, the other night, we’re coming back from the airport, and it’s late at night and they’re working on the roads, so we have to take a detour. I don’t know where the hell to go, but we see this line of 18-wheelers, and so we follow them.

Finally, we get up to a main road, around the detour—we think—and we see a cop walk up to us. I’m thinking he’s going to help us out, so I roll down the window and he starts yelling at us. I’m in shock. I feel the insults come to my lips and I literally have to bite my tongue and cheek hard enough to draw blood to keep from saying anything. My dad speaks to him and is very apologetic as the cop reveals that we are actually in the wrong lane.

What makes me so mad, though, is not that we screwed up. It’s dark and I don’t know where I’m going, but hey, I’m the one in the wrong. No, what makes me mad is the cop specifically comes up to our car and leaves the truckers alone. He’s young, probably pulling shit duty, being out here after midnight in the middle of nowhere, tired, and what have you. Still, he’s yelling at us and not the trucks. If the cop had reamed out the truckers too I’d have no problem. Well, not much of one. But he knew he’d get no traction with them so instead he’s taking it out on us. I hate that.

I am smart enough, though, to keep my mouth shut until the window is rolled up and we roll away. As soon as the window latches my sister actually yells, “Jerk!” and my dad gets furious with her, afraid the cop might hear, I suppose. I very calmly say to the car, which includes both of my parents, “That cop was a fucking asshole and I’ll say it again if I need to.” That’s a measure of how momentarily upset I am, because I try pretty hard not to swear in front of my mother, because she hates it so much, and I don’t think I’ve ever said, “Fuck” in front of her.

So maybe that issue is somewhere in the back of my mind tonight. It still doesn’t excuse me being a complete jackass. What happened is that I cranked that music up and tried to let it just wash all over me. It’s about 9:45 at night, still light up here, but the houses are very close together, and I guess it’s too loud, and well anyway someone calls the police.

That’s just like Canada. Instead of coming to me directly, they call the cops. Actually, it could really only be the neighbors on our right, since the music was down in my basement, and they’re the only people who could have possibly heard it, or at least known who it was.

So, the cops are at the door, and I’m standing there in just a pair of shorts, hair all a mess, looking like some dumb-fuck from “Cops” who always tries to head-butt people. The cops up here are not all that menacing, and this pair is a guy and a girl. I think I’m a bit embarrassed because the girl cop is seeing me without a shirt, but I feel myself getting cocky, like I sometimes do at the worst moments.

They ask me to turn down the music, and I say—to my eternal shame—“Fuck off, pig!” They seem a bit poleaxed, not sure what to say. The guy gets a bit red in the face and starts to make some sort of threat and I forestall him and start mouthing off again. I tell him that it’s not against the law to play music, he can’t come in, whoever called the police is too much of a pussy to confront me directly (at this point it time I haven’t put two and two together to realize it has to be the next-door neighbors), and most shaming of all, I tell them I’m an American and if they arrest me it will be a big international incident.

God, I hate myself sometimes. I don’t ever claim to be an American. As someone who plans to take over the entire world, you can’t think that small. And here I am acting just like a stereotypical American, throwing it in the cops’ face as an excuse for my behavior. I am such a loser.

Not to give anyone ideas, ‘cause I don’t think this would fly in the States, but it works, and they leave. I have kind of this wild feeling as their lights recede from the drive, like I jumped from a two story roof and made it, and then I feel really really sick. It’s about that time the food is ready, and not a moment too soon.

Like a freakin’ elixir, the moment I start eating I start feeling much better. I realize I haven’t eaten in almost 40 hours. To look at me you’d never believe it, but sometimes I forget to eat. A few minutes after that a friend of mine calls who indirectly caused the whole situation earlier that set me off. Like I’d secretly suspected, on his part it was all a misunderstanding, and he steps up to the plate and takes responsibility and says he’ll fix it. I try to explain how I was very very angry, but all I really have to go on is the pain in my stomach, that’s slowly easing. I actually made one correct decision in this to write it all down as it was happening, because there is no way in hell I’d be able to describe it later.

So, now it’s the present, and I’m back down here. I don’t know if there is a lesson in all this, or if it’s even very interesting. It certainly doesn’t make me look good, and apart from points for honesty I may or may not get from the Hyperion X Readers, this desperately needs to be edited, something I wouldn’t do if I sent it out. I don’t even know how to end this with anything witty. Maybe I’ll just go to bed.

EPILOGUE: Since Thursday night/Friday Morning I’ve debated on whether to send this. Then two things happened that made me decide to. One, the person who started the whole thing wrote me and apologized, admitting he didn’t have all the facts. I was already way over it, only remembering the anger like a dream you have that you have impressions of, but can’t really get a good feel for, but I was quite gratified to see him step up to the plate in that way.

The second thing is that I realized why exactly I got so mad. I really had nothing to do with him. He did something kind of mean, but if I told you about it you’d laugh and tell me not to be a baby, and I usually would laugh about it too. But what I realized is that he used the same line—word for word—that this girl once used to break up with me.

I guess I never really dealt with all that; just put it aside and tried to move on, but seeing the same line again, even in a totally different context, brought back all those feelings to the surface. I guess I have issues, but what else is new?

Hyperion

August 29 and August 31, 2003

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