Angry Josh!

I've been working on some serious things with my therapist, and I am still surprised she hasn't dropped me like a bad habit. Here's a little, or maybe not so little, tidbit about Josh, only some of you already know.

I used to be an extremely angry guy.

I don't mean that I had a hair trigger, but I was basically a normal person. I mean, anger was my natural state, and even the smallest thing would, not could, but would, make me erupt like a volcano. And woe to anyone who was in my field of fire when that occurred.

I can track my anger to two key events in my life. The first was my rape when I was seven. I won't go into details, but suffice it to say it happened many times over one summer. The second was when I was eight or nine, I'm not sure which, when I watched my maternal grandfather beat up my mom in the garage. Much like my assault, I was powerless to stop it.

I've hated that man ever since.

Over the years, I learned to build a wall around my anger. It was there, but it was contained. Unfortunately, my wall was less like the wall in Game of Thrones and more like the containment chamber in Ghostbusters.

It was destined to breach.

The explosion, or maybe it was an implosion, occurred when I was thirteen.

I'd lived with my grandparents (not the bastard) for three years, and I would be moving in with my father a few months after the incident.

Two guys lived in the neighborhood who'd been bullying me for the entire time I'd lived there. We'd just got home from school when I saw them beating up one of the neighbor kids. I didn't think before I opened my mouth and told them to get the fuck away from him.

I may have called them a few foul names while I was at it.

They did stop beating on the kid, a kid I couldn't even stand, and my a bee-line for my house. I was terrified. There was no way I could take on even one of them. I was so pissed at myself for getting involved and at them... for being them.

That's when the containment chamber erupted.

I ran to my grandfather's dresser, searched his sock drawer, and retrieved the twenty-five-caliber pistol he used to carry when he was on the road.

He was a long-haul trucker for many years.

Needless to say, when those two asshole bullies reached my back patio, they were greeted, not by me but by the muzzle of a pistol. The two of them nearly shit their pants before taking off like racehorses.

Of course, I didn't get away with this.

After a visit from the police and the threat of jail, a severe tongue-lashing by my grandparents, and a lengthy grounding, I'd learned my lesson. Firearms are NOT toys, and they should never be treated as such.

And my rage?

It didn't go away all at once. After moving to my dad's, I embarked upon three years of therapy, a summer in a psychiatric institution after an attempted suicide, and finding my people. The best friends a dipshit from Detroit Metro could hope for, I'd shed a lot.

My anger remained a problem and source of strife in my family for many years. It's only been since I started therapy more than two years ago that I've truly started dealing with it.

I don't hate people anymore.

I don't wish people dead anymore.

I don't want people to be hurt anymore.

I want to live the rest of my life free of my extreme rage.

I'm happier and healthier this way.

-Josh (05/11/2024)