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06-24-03 - 12:51 a.m. What used to be paralyzing depression is rapidly becoming searing rage. Over the past few months, I've found myself crying less and shouting more, and have become increasingly more violent as the days have passed. Janet, as the only remaining constant in my life, has borne the brunt of my frustration twice every week. I've yelled at her before, many times, but today I think I really crossed the line...which is saying a whole helluva lot for me. My appointment was at eleven. I arrived around 10:50. By ten past, she hadn't called me in, so I asked the receptionist what the hell was going on, claiming I had plans (an obvious lie). Five minutes later, I lost it. The entrance to any psychologist's office is somewhat forbidden. In every encounter I've ever had, numerous as they are, it has always worked the same way: You sit in the waiting room reading an outdated issue of Mirabella and wait till your doctor comes out, says your first name, receives your silent nod of acknowledgement, and welcomes you inside. Today I ignored that unwritten rule. Having been made to wait fifteen minutes past my appointment time, I stood up and marched over to Janet's office door and turned the knob. It was locked, so I threw my weight against the knob, turning it with all my might until the lock broke and the door swung open, pulling me with it. Janet looked up at me and I could see there was a woman, probably in her late 20s or early 30s, crying on the daybed. I told her to get out, that she was wasting everybody's time. Janet asked me calmly to continue waiting outside, but I decided I'd waited long enough and sat down. I told them both that it was my turn and that I had the right, by appointment, to be in the room at eleven o'clock, but that I wouldn't mind hearing this woman's sob story as I didn't have much on my mind anyway. The woman left, of course, scowling at me between tears. She'd put on far too much mascara, which now stained her flushed face and made me think of a mime's typical makeup regimen. Janet closed the door behind her and, taking her usual seat behind her desk, stared at me for a while without speaking. I lit a cigarette because she hates me smoking and took the woman's place on the couch. "Well?" she asked me. "I got nothin'." "That was the cruellest display I've yet seen from you." I said nothing. "You were hardly acting your age, just then." I laughed and nearly choked on the tobacco ruining my lungs, throat, and mouth. "On the contrary," I said, "I think that was about the closest to my age I've ever acted in my life." "I've always pegged you as being better than that." "Than what?" "Stereotype." "I wish I was telekinetic." "Why is that?" The greatest thing about Janet is that I can change the subject as randomly as possible and she never loses her composure. She stays right there with me. "It'd just be rad." "What would you do if you could in fact move objects with your mind?" "Probably take that"�indicating the lovely picture frame of her sister's beautiful family on her desk�"and smash it against the wall." "Why would you want to do that?" I thought about it for a minute. "I dunno." Janet made a few notes on her legal pad. I blew a few smoke rings, one of my not-so-hidden talents. "I want to break something," I said. And I did. I really felt as though I needed to physically destroy something. "You are not going to break anything." "I think I will." I hadn't moved. "What kind of progress do you expect to make, Laura, if you continue to give in to your violent tendencies?" I exhaled a few more rings and offered as evidence the fact that I hadn't actually ever hurt anybody. "Except yourself." "Except myself. But I deserved it." I lifted a sleeve to show her the pitiful healing work my body had attempted on my right forearm. Eventually this led to the usual argument about my non-existent self-esteem, I yelled at her, and soon enough found myself chucking her picture frame against the wall, where it smashed into a hundred pieces. Janet stood, grabbed my wrists (which really hurt the right one), and shouted at me to get a hold of myself, then thrust me back down in my usual loveseat and made her way back to her desk. "Janet," I said, "this is why I like you. You're not afraid to kick my ass, if need be." She looked as though she was trying very hard to hide how flustered she was. "It's twelve. Time up." On my way home, I swerved purposefully off the road and drove over the cement median for a time, just because I had never done so before. A couple people honked at me as though trying to alert me to the fact that I'd strayed out of my lane. The worst is when people ask why I'm angry. Why do you think I'm angry, fuckwipe?! I've been denying this fury for years, and it's coming back as my most prominent emotion. At times it's all-consuming and I have to do things to let off steam. But I'm still boiling inside while screaming outside. I'm getting out of control, if I'm not already. And here I sit, thinking I'm fit to take care of my little brother...
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