Looking Into The Mirror

Somewhere floating within the matrix of my DNA is a gene with a face on it. Mum’s face. And that, would be the gene for bad temper, which my brother and I have both unfortunately inherited.

Last week I worked myself up to a near heart-attack. What started off as mild grumpiness at the hell-on-earth that is KL traffic soon exploded into a hissy fit of epic proportions. As I approached the start of the fly-over ramp to get to my apartment (having patiently crawled my way through two five-minute traffic light cycles), a car from my right started queuing by my side to cut in. Soon it was joined by 3 other cars, all of which pretty much edged me out of the way with their cutting-in manoeuvres. As a result of which I missed the green light.

Such choice curses I spewed upon their persons, cars and kin. Not to mention the assortment of exquisite bloody tortures I wished on them. If I had my baseball bat with me at that very moment, those cars would have been bashed as they cut in past me. As the windows of my car steamed from the hellfire that burned from my entire being, I suddenly realised that I couldn’t quite breathe properly (which was probably enhancing the richness of the particular shade of purple that I had turned from the rage). My heart was pounding and my chest actually ached.

So terrible was the imminent medical emergency that there was no choice but to rush to the nearest 7-11 and treat it with a Snickers ice-cream bar (what’s better than a Snickers? Snickers Ice-cream, that’s what!) and potato chips.

Sigh. O foul temper of mine, you are hardly attractive. When it happens, disgruntled annoyance quickly grows into an enthusiastic medley of hissing and spitting and though I can quite clearly hear my rational male brain say "MUST you channel mum…again?", it drowns in its own impotence as the rampaging drama-queen-hijacked train of tantrum hurtles along.

Unfortunately, the one closest to me quite often becomes the vicarious victim of my unrequited teeth-gnashing. Too often have I sensed, huddled at the periphery of my rage-consumed consciousness, the kind of frightened muteness that precedes a desperate dash for the nearest exit. Two days ago, a completely uncalled for, screaming down the phone tirade at her about frickin’ KL traffic (what else?) left me in contrite knots of guilty grumpiness.

On the bright side, at least I do manage to get past the rage in a relatively short period. Much like vomit, it just has to come out in unstoppable spews but once it’s out, I’m back to my usual adorably disgruntled self, albeit with the bitter taste of guilt at having thrown up on the innocent bystander.

I’m also terribly impatient. Traffic (whodathunk?), precocious kids, stupid people, dial-up connections, queues, government servants, bush-beating, incessant tears and self-pity. Gaaaah! Just makes me tear my hair out. Not a pretty sight. Impatience and a bad temper don’t make for an endearing combination.

I never used to be impatient with crying. I’ve had my share of body-wracking sobs and I really do understand the cathartic value of howling to the moon. But the Event of late 2002 exposed me to a flood of biblical proportions that completely wiped out my lifetime tolerance quota.

Granted, the said flood was precipitated by my own reprehensible actions, but dammit, surely you must agree that after a certain point, all you’re left with is emotional and physical exhaustion. And a fond affection for the box of tissues.

There’s a place for tears, yes, but not at the expense of doing something about it, solving the problem, moving forwards. Self-pity and Tears – treacherous twin sisters of the heart, entrapping rational thought and practicality with their siren song of wretched, unbridled emotion.

God, I’ve been there.

I’ve learnt that crying yourself into a heaving, soggy heap for days on end doesn’t make you feel better. It doesn’t change reality, it doesn’t give you a painless death and it sure as heck doesn’t solve the problem. He’s not going to suddenly change his mind and love you again. She’s not coming back. It’s gone. It’s over.

You’ve been given lemons. Do something with it. Trade it for limes. Tears (read – salt) and limes. All you need next is tequila. :)

Bad temper, impatient, heart of stone. Can anyone resist my charms? Well, at least I admit to these faults…that’s half the battle won right? I am mindful, indeed, but it’s so hard, trying to be a better person. Snif.

I am a problem solver. I will listen to you, supply a dry shoulder, tissues and even wallowy, I-want-to-die music. But the timer is ticking. When it rings, I will tell you my assessment of the situation and lay out what I think your options are. This is where the tequila recipes come in.

I think that at the heart of the "women are emotional, men are insensitive" debate is the fact that one gender (male) tends to lean towards problem-solving whilst the other (female) tends to lean towards feeling the problem. One seeks an awareness (almost an appreciation) of the experience and all its nuances, whilst the other seeks to alter the experience. Both approaches have their pros and cons. It’s all a matter of balance.

Neil Gaiman says it best (butofcourse,duh). In Brief Lives, Dream imparts this bit of wisdom to his son Orpheus:-

"You grieve. Then you continue with your life.
And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep.
But this will happen less and less as time goes on.
She is dead. You are alive.
So live."