The futility of anger

Guy grins and rolls his eyes as he recounts the Romanians hushed 'she's an angry woman' description. I bristle, dutifully indignant and leave him to deal with the Central Europeans.

A few weeks on, and I'm wondering if the man from Bucharest wasn't right. I am angry. Gut churningly so. It's always been empty words... making a mark, achieving goals, blah, blah..... But there does come a time when you stop and look around and wonder just what the hell you're doing. This, is one of those times.

Reverting to the stereotype just makes me want to bellow to shatter glass, being undervalued, the tipping point. Like a slap in the face. You're working in real estate and you couldn't give a tinker's damn to begin with.....You're good at what you do but don't get paid what you're worth. Fury drums my temples to the rythm of my resentfully pulsating heart, because I don't even care enough to fight. The realisation that you really are alone in a city that will never be your home. That you've just said goodbye to someone who really loves you, and that the others who feel the same way, aren't here. So why am I?

Time to let go of the illusion that things will work out. They won't. How can they when you didn't believe enough to fight for what we had. The wedge of ego and fear gouging a chasm to deep to cross. Nothing's changed really, but it takes the absence of Anaheeta's new found openness and maturity and Mimi's melodramatic 'he's dead to me..' to bring it home. My once insitinctive and unshakeable defence of you crumbling under the onslight of your blithe shoe shopping. Nothing has changed. Fear holding us in limbo, I think, but how long can you delude yourself. Am I still here because leaving would really be the end?

I'm tired of the sadness that insidiously wraps around me like a hungry python when I least expect it. Weary of the recently acquiried disequilibrium that threatens to overwhelm me every now and then. Angry at the anxious tattoo my heart thumps out when bored, frustrated at the absence of control as I toss yet another kohl destroyed kerchief into the laundry bin. I'm tired of fighting a battle that there isn't. The irony of having to surrender after I'd already retreated, chokes me. Pity, hope doesn't go the same way.

I'm tired. Of it all. 28 degrees outside. 4 degrees inside. It's going to be an early fall this year.