3 September 2013
What happened this morning gave me a lot of things to think about, along with a bout of anxiety. I am thinking about the things we allow–the things I allow people to do to me, the things I allow myself to do, that sort of thing.
I said, in an email to you and other friends, that I wasn’t the confrontational type of person. I steer clear away from it whenever possible, and I’ve long ago trained myself to spot trouble from miles away. (Maybe that’s why I’m frustrated when I find myself blindsided, when I find myself in the middle of things I can’t control. Huh.) When I’m backed into a corner, the first thing to do is to take a deep breath, then try to see if my wits can get me out of the situation. Fighting is the last resort, but when I do fight, I do fight.
Also, when I think about it–most of the arguments I get into are in defense of other people who are unable to go up against their aggressor. It pushes my berserk button, I guess–seeing other people pick on someone smaller, someone more vulnerable. I don’t know–do I see myself in them somehow? Do I use this as opportunity to fight, and in doing so, feel that I am fighting all those who have made me feel weak and bad and worthless? (So is it a selfish act after all?)
But I am derailing myself…I think maybe I have contradicted myself, too.
My head’s all fucked up tonight. I’m stopping here. I don’t know what I wanted to say when I started writing this. I guess–I guess I am thinking about the post I am about to write, I am thinking about what it feels to have the rug pulled from beneath you. I am thinking if I should allow myself to get angry, to feel victimised–a word I hate, because I have promised myself long ago: never again, I shall never again be–be that, not this, not me, I shall never again be everything that has happened in a life that makes one that, no, never again.