The Broken Plate.

Soooo... I just broke a plate. It went like this:

I got two slices of supreme pizza and some cheesy bread from Little Caesar's on a blue durable plastic plate. I put it on the dresser in my room on my extra jacket. It was dark so I went to turn on the light after I put it down. I heard it slide as the extra pizza and the bread hit the floor of my old hairy berber carpet. I only caught the plate and one piece of pizza. I picked up the extra bits off the floor, put them back on the plate which is on my extra flannel jacket, and although I didn't register any real anger, I punched down on the plate. I suspect because of the soft cushioney backing, that is the main reason why it broke into almost four equal parts with smeared pizza, cheesy bread dipping sauce, and accompanying cheesy bread... all over the inside of this jacket.

I have a problem. I have always been like this, it arises not out of "anger" per se, but of frustration. My whole life. I have always been this way. Even when I was five I remember coming home from kindergarten and scolding my stuffed Kermit doll for being mean to my other stuffed animals.... so I swung him around the room.... maybe it is out of anger. Real anger.

I have always been quite adept at being ragey... more like a berserker warrior. It sneaks up on me... I am very good at dealing with emotions however. I know when I'm feeling it and I can usually talk myself down, or because I do not like to hurt anyone or anything and I appreciate peoples places in life... so right now it's like a menu option on a computer program rather than something that automatically happens... but sometimes there is still that plate.

Also this behavior has also been limited to inanimate objects - walls, phone books, my desk, and other casual things.

There has never been anywhere to go to discuss this. I don't trust psychologists, or other mental examiners because they have their own ideas about psychology and they would probably give me "Medications" and honestly, I have met like three people who think like I do... some of which were medicated and frankly it just makes their lives dumber.

Talking about it seems to help, and having the will to respect my psychological differences with others, while aiming at being better seems to be the way to go.

Maybe this happened because I just got back from the Hospital to see my Dad... or maybe this has just always been there. I was writing some darkness in my tiny sketch book. He pisses me off so much, but he is so scared and dense from where his life is. There is no answer for him. I doubt he will take "rehab" well for his muscles and health, I bet he will piss everyone off... because he's the sort of guy who would fart in the direction of one's girlfriend at his son's birthday dinner... or he wants you to insult him and to call him names it seems to reinforce some sort of masochistic regime he has built in his head and heart. I really do not know enough about where he is where he came from or why to understand how to fix this... or at least make it livable for Mom and myself. I heavily suspect he really wants to die... or at least thinks he does... because to him life has nothing left to offer... because the drugs and parties are gone.

There is more to life and weather than sunshine... and this broken plate may be the barometer.