I have always taken it as a basic premise of my life that - other than Hitler, John Wilkes Booth and Satan - the person I am most unforgiving of is myself.

I wear this both as a badge of honor - a source of pride - and a talisman - against the barbs and harms inherent in the opinions of others ("Why would they possibly say anything bad about me that will hurt me, when I could and often do, say worse about myself?")

Somehow it never occurred to me that just being a good person would prevent people from saying bad things about me. And even if it didn't, anyone who did say these allegedly bad things would have nothing to back up such statements, thus rendering them ineffective rants, at least to anyone who really matters.

But I guess the problem has always been that if such a "bad thing" statement was ever made, it doesn't matter to me that no one believes it, or even that no one I care about believes it... all that mattered was, if uttered, I would believe it. I believe anything bad about myself. Always have, and, though the thought frightens me, always will.

All of that being said, the premise of my life is a lie.

I am hard on myself. I am, perhaps, harder on myself than others, but, it has increasingly come to my attention that it is not by much.

I am critical. I am difficult. And I hold grudges like nobody's business.

Say something or do something that I take the wrong way, and it will be a long, long, long time before things are ever normal between us again. Of course, you may never know this. Because I can't and won't talk about my feelings. Not in a way that could potentially upset you. My anger and hysteria I can deal with. Can't control it, but can deal with. Your potential anger/disapproval/disenchantment with me - no way. It will drive me screaming into the streets if I thought you were upset with me.

So I don't tell you what is bothering me. So it festers. It wears. It itches. It galls. So I have to discuss it. But no, not with you because, as I said before, you might get angry with me. Or worse, you might think I was crazy. Not that you didn't before, but I am always wary of making that one false move that breaks the proverbial camel's back and erases all doubt. (How is that for some rather ineffective haphazard slapdash metaphor mixing?)

So this discussion must be had. So I talk. I rant. I cry. I gossip. I over-analyze the subject. With anyone that will listen. I tell the story. I need affirmation of my anger, indignancy, my right to hurt feelings. Without the affirmation, my feelings have no worth. I also, at some level, need the sympathy. So I frame the story. I do. Subconsciously. Maybe a bit consciously. So it is dramatic, it has flourishes. It shows you are wrong, wrong, wrong.

In effect, I bad mouth you. Over and over. Till I feel better.

But the thing is... I don't feel better. Ever. Instead, I just feel guilty. Because whatever you did that I thought was so horrible, is nowhere near the heinousness of my gossiping and complaining about you to others. I feel worse. And yet, I can't stop. So I do it, more and more. Till I feel so bad that things, in this dispute you didn't know we were having, are resolved between us because my subsequent sins of gossip and pettiness now far exceed your perceived wrongs.

You are better, I am worse. Things are now, once again, as it should be.

Damn, that's not good. Not good at all. In fact, it is, dare I say, bad.

Wow.

I need to have an argument with someone.

I have never done it.

A lawyer who has never made an argument. That's rich. Though I guess not so far off for a junior associate.

Well, I am a mid-level now. Time to move past my Daniel Kaffee phase of life and face things.

If something upsets me, I need to say so, and it needs no other validation other than the fact that it upset me.

Do I really believe that? No. But I need to try.

This is why I was so angry at the ex-BF for so long. He never argued with me. Ever. Well, not that I ever wanted to argue with him. But after four years, there was never an argument, even on the day we broke up, and I accused him of extreme neglect of my heart with which I had entrusted him. No argument. Nothing. Just a weird pod-person-like 24 hour period after the fact when we sat together in his house trying to do normal things and pretend like it wasn't all over.

No argument. Months of anger. Spilled over the year mark actually. Starting to wash away only recently.

Never argued with my family because I would never win. Who can win with people who don't listen and whose arguments are never dictated by logic? And yet, they still argue with one another all the time. Why? I always just thought they couldn't help it. That it was a biological imperative of sorts. And, truth be told, it more than likely is. However, I think it also has a cathartic value to them. As it does for everyone. I have never had this catharsis, as I have never had an argument.

Seriously. That is weird.

27 years.

No argument.

Wow.

There are people I feel anger towards now. However, none of them are socially appropriate for me to vent my anger at. Additionally, even if I did, none of those particular parties would care. Even if they did, the issues I have with them are of such a far removed vintage that to bring them up now looks like I am consciously picking a fight (which I guess I would be) rather than just responding with my feelings in the moment, and thus, likely, would result in anger (well justified) coming from the other side for my out-of-left-field orneriness.

Oh man,

I have a way to go.

I need to speed up this growing up/finding myself/getting on the right path thing, because I need to get the hell out of my job, and soon.

Not a particularly horrible time at the means-to-a-paycheck central, but I am getting pretty damn sick of it. I have overstayed my welcome and the thought of staying a whole other year, though it would be the prudent thing to do, seems utterly unbearable. I need to take some time and I need to take it soon, but it does not appear that I could even be able to think about it till March.

Personally, I don't know if I will make it that long.

Wonder why I feel so desperate? It is not desperate the way I used to feel. Like desperate-hopeless. It is much more of a desperate-antsy, I suppose.

Well, either way, it is desperate nonetheless.

Ugh.