Do jerks know they're jerks? Like, when someone does something really awful and mean or stupid or lazy, do they know it whether or not they admit it? And let's say they deny it. They deny that they said something mean or did something stupid. Is it up to us to let them know that we know even if they won't admit it? Is it up to us to call them out? Because will they really be receptive to us? I say no. Because if they were receptive to us then they would be self-aware enough to know that acted like jerks in the first place.
Calling them out is a waste of time. Maybe it will make us feel better in the moment but it does nothing to change them or their behaviour. Only they are in charge of their choices; we can only control our reactions to them. If they're ever going to admit they screwed up it will be on their own clock, not ours. And ironically, by us calling them out, we tend to delay any chances of them changing anyway.
I have a guilty pleasure. I love it when Callum wakes up in the middle of the night to nurse because then I can come downstairs in the peace and quiet, sit at the table and have a snack. When he sleeps through the night, I'll wake up in the morning and feel a bit ripped off that I didn't get the chance to have that secret alone time. I usually have a bowl of cereal or some yogurt and granola but last night I had a plate of crackers and Nutella (chocolate hazelnut spread). This morning I went into the pantry to grab some stuff for breakfast and I noticed a smear of Nutella on the light switch and it made me think of what I was saying before about when people are jerks. That whatever we do, however we act and whatever we say always comes back around. We think just because we deny that we did anything wrong, that it must mean that we didn't do anything wrong. That if we eat Nutella in the dark, that when morning comes it will be as if it never happened.
But both always leave a mark.
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Saturday, November 22, 2014
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Bring it Home
My chest wrings its muscles in angst, my eyes are flecked with worried wet and it's all I can do to tame it, hold it back, rein it in until I get there. I do all the right things: I shoulder check, signal, calmly pull into my spot with my jaw flexed into a peace-forced half-smile while my muscles twitch with emotional overload.
Collecting myself, adjusting the tongue of my shoes, I set my eyes on the path ahead and take names. One step to start, two to keep me going, and then it's no turning back. Not for a while. Not until I'm finished pouring myself out, fertilizing the forest with my heart.
A burn pile's smoke pulls my gaze to the right, interrupting my rhythmic breath for a moment while I draw it slowly in and up! An eagle! Chest out and proud. I lift my own in hopes that I too might be recognized as supreme and then a second later I trip on a root and instead, promptly remember my humility.
My humble feet take me to places in my heart that not even flight could bring.
I run and I run and I run and when I find what I'm looking for, I don't stop and turn around. No. I hold it close. I let it in and turn it 'round until it warms and molds to who I am, becoming a part of me, and then I carry it home.
It's a bit heavier, but I'm a bit stronger. So it all evens out.
Collecting myself, adjusting the tongue of my shoes, I set my eyes on the path ahead and take names. One step to start, two to keep me going, and then it's no turning back. Not for a while. Not until I'm finished pouring myself out, fertilizing the forest with my heart.
A burn pile's smoke pulls my gaze to the right, interrupting my rhythmic breath for a moment while I draw it slowly in and up! An eagle! Chest out and proud. I lift my own in hopes that I too might be recognized as supreme and then a second later I trip on a root and instead, promptly remember my humility.
My humble feet take me to places in my heart that not even flight could bring.
I run and I run and I run and when I find what I'm looking for, I don't stop and turn around. No. I hold it close. I let it in and turn it 'round until it warms and molds to who I am, becoming a part of me, and then I carry it home.
It's a bit heavier, but I'm a bit stronger. So it all evens out.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Secret Thoughts Are Heavy
I like to journal my thoughts in emails to myself. When I'm particularly disturbed and chit-chatty, I can have a thread a million emails long going back and forth between me and myself all in one evening. I'll be all, "I fucking hate stretchy pants! And I hate everyone who looks at me!" and then I'll reply with, "but I'm amazed at my body for growing a human, and I need to go slather it with coconut oil and remind the wobbly bits that they're appreciated, and loved, and rather quite exciting, if looked at under the right lighting, with squinty eyes, after a glass of red."
When I was a kid, we didn't have email or smart phones and so I had to journal in those stupid little hard diaries with the spines that don't bend, with the locks on the front that only succumbed to a teensie tiny little key that was almost always lost. And I believed that no other little girl could think such wicked things, and so to put them down with pen on paper would be a horrific crime for which I most certainly would get caught and severely punished.
We all know, however, that there are just some thoughts that we cannot hold inside, that if we did, they'd eventually liquify and seep out in some form or another, quietly like an oil spill or explosively like a volcano. And so I decided, one day, when I was a child, that I could write down all my wicked thoughts onto paper but that my words would be illegible; I could write each letter of each word of each sentence, right on top of one another. Depending on my levels of anger and insanity, I had been known to push a soggy ink blob right through that piece of paper. I'd sit there in church, or school, or at home at the kitchen table, grip my pen in one hand, push the edge of the paper down with the other, and write down all sorts of death and hate, right there, and I'd get it all out. The loathsome enemy could be sitting right beside me and I'd be writing all sorts of evil things about them and they'd never even know.
I think many of us wish Facebook had this status update option, yes? Like, every time I post something that looks like a giant ink blob, all 4 people who click on my timeline will know that I am probably bloated, irrational, and hateful.
We all don't need to put down our dark thoughts into an ink blob. I mean, when we feel like we're ten minutes away from being institutionalized, we can deal with it in our own way. Everyone needs a Safe Friend: a friend who won't judge or laugh or phone the cops when you unload your dark hateful thoughts about life. We can write it, or speak it, or symbolize it into a rock and throw it into a lake. We could walk twenty minutes into the forest, pull our hair and scream out impossibly nasty things into the night air. Or, when it's dark out, we could drive along the freeway and verbally abuse the empty seats next to and behind us.
But whatever we do, however we choose to get it out, once we do we will feel a whole lot lighter. And maybe those stretchy pants won't be needed anymore.
When I was a kid, we didn't have email or smart phones and so I had to journal in those stupid little hard diaries with the spines that don't bend, with the locks on the front that only succumbed to a teensie tiny little key that was almost always lost. And I believed that no other little girl could think such wicked things, and so to put them down with pen on paper would be a horrific crime for which I most certainly would get caught and severely punished.
We all know, however, that there are just some thoughts that we cannot hold inside, that if we did, they'd eventually liquify and seep out in some form or another, quietly like an oil spill or explosively like a volcano. And so I decided, one day, when I was a child, that I could write down all my wicked thoughts onto paper but that my words would be illegible; I could write each letter of each word of each sentence, right on top of one another. Depending on my levels of anger and insanity, I had been known to push a soggy ink blob right through that piece of paper. I'd sit there in church, or school, or at home at the kitchen table, grip my pen in one hand, push the edge of the paper down with the other, and write down all sorts of death and hate, right there, and I'd get it all out. The loathsome enemy could be sitting right beside me and I'd be writing all sorts of evil things about them and they'd never even know.
I think many of us wish Facebook had this status update option, yes? Like, every time I post something that looks like a giant ink blob, all 4 people who click on my timeline will know that I am probably bloated, irrational, and hateful.
We all don't need to put down our dark thoughts into an ink blob. I mean, when we feel like we're ten minutes away from being institutionalized, we can deal with it in our own way. Everyone needs a Safe Friend: a friend who won't judge or laugh or phone the cops when you unload your dark hateful thoughts about life. We can write it, or speak it, or symbolize it into a rock and throw it into a lake. We could walk twenty minutes into the forest, pull our hair and scream out impossibly nasty things into the night air. Or, when it's dark out, we could drive along the freeway and verbally abuse the empty seats next to and behind us.
But whatever we do, however we choose to get it out, once we do we will feel a whole lot lighter. And maybe those stretchy pants won't be needed anymore.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Hey, How's it Going?
I went through this phase in University where I put a huge emphasis on authenticity to the point where I sacrificed manners and social skills in the name of "being real." One of the things I hated was when people used the question "how's it going?" as a greeting rather than an honest inquiry. And so I rebelled against it and whenever someone would ask me that, I'd stop and just start totally going into my life story to see their reaction. They'd get all squirmy and I'd get all smug, as if I taught them some sort of lesson in authenticity.
However, I've since matured, partly because I found myself without a whole lot of friends but mostly because it didn't feel good to not care. Don't get me wrong--I value sincerity. I recognize the goodness of being real, of acknowledging and giving validity to our feelings and moods as they ebb and flow through our days. But sometimes, just sometimes, we need to get over ourselves and give a fuck about someone else.
Being human means to be absorbed with Self. Exercising the muscle of Other is exactly that: an exercise. It doesn't come naturally. It's work. It makes us sweat and it often smarts. And sometimes the very last thing on earth that I ever want to do is care about whatever person is in my face in that moment and it takes every ounce of my energy to lift that weight and care. But each time I do, (and I often don't!) I feel better.
When I was younger, I'd whine to my mom about not wanting to go to church that day and my mom would always tell me that this is the best time to go--when I don't feel like it. That I will be doubly rewarded (an extra cookie in Sunday School?) if I forced myself to go. I'm not sure if this ideology deemed true each time but there's something to be said about doing things that you don't feel like doing.
Statistically, a smile, even if it's forced, produces happy chemicals in the brain and our bodies can't help but feel a bit happier! Maybe if we forced ourselves to look up and smile, even when we don't feel like it, we'd find our emotional muscles to be stronger and more efficient.
I'm sure you're angry and resentful and have every good and valid reason to unleash your assholery on the cashier/son/daughter/ex/dog/annoyingpersontalkingtooloudontheircellinthestarbucksline, and God knows they have no idea how hard your life has been and they most certainly haven't ever had a struggle in their lives. But just keep doing what you're doing. Leave the bar of Other on the ground in the weight room and see what happens. If it's the same thing that happened to me, you'll look up in the gym mirror and see nobody around you and your heart will be small and cold and flabby. Or, you can let go of Self and pick up the Other bar and join the rest of the world in all our glorious messes.
Because where there are messes, there are people. And where there are people, there is Love.
However, I've since matured, partly because I found myself without a whole lot of friends but mostly because it didn't feel good to not care. Don't get me wrong--I value sincerity. I recognize the goodness of being real, of acknowledging and giving validity to our feelings and moods as they ebb and flow through our days. But sometimes, just sometimes, we need to get over ourselves and give a fuck about someone else.
Being human means to be absorbed with Self. Exercising the muscle of Other is exactly that: an exercise. It doesn't come naturally. It's work. It makes us sweat and it often smarts. And sometimes the very last thing on earth that I ever want to do is care about whatever person is in my face in that moment and it takes every ounce of my energy to lift that weight and care. But each time I do, (and I often don't!) I feel better.
When I was younger, I'd whine to my mom about not wanting to go to church that day and my mom would always tell me that this is the best time to go--when I don't feel like it. That I will be doubly rewarded (an extra cookie in Sunday School?) if I forced myself to go. I'm not sure if this ideology deemed true each time but there's something to be said about doing things that you don't feel like doing.
Statistically, a smile, even if it's forced, produces happy chemicals in the brain and our bodies can't help but feel a bit happier! Maybe if we forced ourselves to look up and smile, even when we don't feel like it, we'd find our emotional muscles to be stronger and more efficient.
I'm sure you're angry and resentful and have every good and valid reason to unleash your assholery on the cashier/son/daughter/ex/dog/annoyingpersontalkingtooloudontheircellinthestarbucksline, and God knows they have no idea how hard your life has been and they most certainly haven't ever had a struggle in their lives. But just keep doing what you're doing. Leave the bar of Other on the ground in the weight room and see what happens. If it's the same thing that happened to me, you'll look up in the gym mirror and see nobody around you and your heart will be small and cold and flabby. Or, you can let go of Self and pick up the Other bar and join the rest of the world in all our glorious messes.
Because where there are messes, there are people. And where there are people, there is Love.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
When Milk Seeps Into the Motherboard
Every morning I stumble downstairs, make coffee, and then bring it back up to my room and rest it on my nightstand. Then I flip open my MacBook Pro, catch up on emails, return messages, check the weather, and do some writing.
Until Katie spilled a ginormous glass of milk on my laptop. We lost the remote for the TV, and I wanted to go for a run without anyone fighting and so for the very first (and only) time, I let Katie play with my MacBook. She spilled her milk all over the bloody thing and then tried to mop it up and hide what she did. When I turned it on a few hours later, I saw a droplet of milk and then the thing fizzled out on my lap.
I brought it to Best Buy where they confirmed the death, and as I sunk to my knees, the sales guy grabbed my arm and hushed me, telling me that "it's only a laptop, that it's not a child, that your kids are healthy and alive, and the 'things' of this earth can be replaced." Then I told him that if that's true, then he'd probably not mind much at all if I tucked another MacBook under my arm and walked out.
Life is full of lessons and I have no doubt there's a big fat one waiting for me somewhere in the curdled milk. Maybe I'm not meant to be a writer. Or a runner. Or maybe I shouldn't take shortcuts on parenting techniques. Or maybe we shouldn't be drinking milk. Or maybe, just maybe, sometimes mistakes seep into our motherboard and we just have to live with it.
So here I am, punching away at the sticky keys on our desktop in the family room while Freddy pesters Katie behind me until she cries, and while Jake begs me to send them both to a boarding school in Sri Lanka. There are what looks to be boogers stuck to the edge of the desk, and there's dubstep assaulting me through the speakers.
I am a mother first. A writer and a runner, maybe those too. But always a mother. My MacBook mornings will come again when the time is right but for now, I won't cry over spilled milk. I'll just fill my cup up with wine instead.
Until Katie spilled a ginormous glass of milk on my laptop. We lost the remote for the TV, and I wanted to go for a run without anyone fighting and so for the very first (and only) time, I let Katie play with my MacBook. She spilled her milk all over the bloody thing and then tried to mop it up and hide what she did. When I turned it on a few hours later, I saw a droplet of milk and then the thing fizzled out on my lap.
I brought it to Best Buy where they confirmed the death, and as I sunk to my knees, the sales guy grabbed my arm and hushed me, telling me that "it's only a laptop, that it's not a child, that your kids are healthy and alive, and the 'things' of this earth can be replaced." Then I told him that if that's true, then he'd probably not mind much at all if I tucked another MacBook under my arm and walked out.
Life is full of lessons and I have no doubt there's a big fat one waiting for me somewhere in the curdled milk. Maybe I'm not meant to be a writer. Or a runner. Or maybe I shouldn't take shortcuts on parenting techniques. Or maybe we shouldn't be drinking milk. Or maybe, just maybe, sometimes mistakes seep into our motherboard and we just have to live with it.
So here I am, punching away at the sticky keys on our desktop in the family room while Freddy pesters Katie behind me until she cries, and while Jake begs me to send them both to a boarding school in Sri Lanka. There are what looks to be boogers stuck to the edge of the desk, and there's dubstep assaulting me through the speakers.
I am a mother first. A writer and a runner, maybe those too. But always a mother. My MacBook mornings will come again when the time is right but for now, I won't cry over spilled milk. I'll just fill my cup up with wine instead.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
The Love Chapter, Re-Visited
In the Bible, in the New Testament (the book that Christians read and hope to follow), there's a chapter nicknamed, "The Love Chapter" because the writer (his name was Paul) basically made a list of what love is, and what love isn't. This is one of the official translations (italicized) of this chapter:
"If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I posess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing."
So what is love? Paul goes on to tell the reader:
"Love is patient, love is kind, It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails."
And this is how I would apply the love chapter to my life in a way that makes sense to me:
If I can make myself sound like I give a shit but I really don't, then I belong alone in a cave with a bear. If I have a university degree and can write a really good essay but I work at Starbucks, then I will probably gain 5lb from eating broken pastries. If I believe that the 5lb looks awesome on me but in reality my muffin top is spilling over my too-tight pants, then I should probably re-think the consumption of broken pastries. If I give all of my second-hand furniture to someone who needs it and then whine about having nothing to sit on, then the extra 5lb will probably come in handy from having to sit on the cold cement floor for the rest of my life.
So what is love? This is my take:
Love untangles Christmas lights and puts together Ikea furniture... anonymously. Love takes anger for a run and leaves it on the road. Love is happy when my best friend has a great hair night. Love is more love when I am happy that someone I don't like has a great hair night. Love is telling the most popular kid to stop being a bully, even when I know that I just became a target. Love knows that when I come home with a scar on my face, he will see only beauty. Love doesn't only exist on date night but in spite of date night. Love is made on the cold cement floor. Love is.
"If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I posess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing."
So what is love? Paul goes on to tell the reader:
"Love is patient, love is kind, It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails."
And this is how I would apply the love chapter to my life in a way that makes sense to me:
If I can make myself sound like I give a shit but I really don't, then I belong alone in a cave with a bear. If I have a university degree and can write a really good essay but I work at Starbucks, then I will probably gain 5lb from eating broken pastries. If I believe that the 5lb looks awesome on me but in reality my muffin top is spilling over my too-tight pants, then I should probably re-think the consumption of broken pastries. If I give all of my second-hand furniture to someone who needs it and then whine about having nothing to sit on, then the extra 5lb will probably come in handy from having to sit on the cold cement floor for the rest of my life.
So what is love? This is my take:
Love untangles Christmas lights and puts together Ikea furniture... anonymously. Love takes anger for a run and leaves it on the road. Love is happy when my best friend has a great hair night. Love is more love when I am happy that someone I don't like has a great hair night. Love is telling the most popular kid to stop being a bully, even when I know that I just became a target. Love knows that when I come home with a scar on my face, he will see only beauty. Love doesn't only exist on date night but in spite of date night. Love is made on the cold cement floor. Love is.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Unchained
I believe in hell. Look around us! Hell is the environment that contains the consequences of our bad decisions. Sometimes the burn comes from the fire someone else sets in our path and sometimes we scorch ourselves, but either or, hell hurts. It doesn't just hurt us but everyone close to us.
Divorce didn't just hurt Jason and I, it hurt our kids. We hurt our kids. We did that. Pretending that we didn't totally shit the bed won't get us out of our painful mess and in fact the first step toward healing is acknowledging the pain we created and taking responsibility for it. We could sit in the middle of our beds pointing our fingers of blame at everyone else but at the end of the day we'd still have our own shit stuck to our thighs.
I love this part, though, that we have a choice. Once we acknowledge the hellish mess we are sitting in, we have two choices: to stay or to leave.
Some people stay there, feeling depressed and worthless, punishing themselves in dramatic self-deprecation. If I did that, then my kids would be robbed of a healthy, loving mother. I could stay stuck in my grief and dread my hair and eat sand and chew on my foot callouses. Another way to stay stuck would be to point my fingers and blame everyone else for my current condition. I could take on the whole world with my righteous anger, declaring war on anyone who even thinks about holding me accountable for my mess. I've tried both avenues and I can say that even despite moments of triumph and satisfaction, the peace didn't last and each time, I faced a dead end.
Grace isn't just a term used to rationalize bad behaviour; grace is a gift that is lived through the consequences of bad behaviour. What I mean is, grace isn't our ticket out of hell but our fountain of cool water in the midst of it.
Divorce hurts kids, there is no doubt about that, but that doesn't have to be the final chapter. I refuse to chain my children to my side while I sit in my shit, while I stand in my hellfire. I'll accept the fountain of cool water to drink because I want to share it with my babies. I want them to know that there is respite, that redemption and new beginnings exist, and that life doesn't end at our mistakes.
Divorce didn't just hurt Jason and I, it hurt our kids. We hurt our kids. We did that. Pretending that we didn't totally shit the bed won't get us out of our painful mess and in fact the first step toward healing is acknowledging the pain we created and taking responsibility for it. We could sit in the middle of our beds pointing our fingers of blame at everyone else but at the end of the day we'd still have our own shit stuck to our thighs.
I love this part, though, that we have a choice. Once we acknowledge the hellish mess we are sitting in, we have two choices: to stay or to leave.
Some people stay there, feeling depressed and worthless, punishing themselves in dramatic self-deprecation. If I did that, then my kids would be robbed of a healthy, loving mother. I could stay stuck in my grief and dread my hair and eat sand and chew on my foot callouses. Another way to stay stuck would be to point my fingers and blame everyone else for my current condition. I could take on the whole world with my righteous anger, declaring war on anyone who even thinks about holding me accountable for my mess. I've tried both avenues and I can say that even despite moments of triumph and satisfaction, the peace didn't last and each time, I faced a dead end.
Grace isn't just a term used to rationalize bad behaviour; grace is a gift that is lived through the consequences of bad behaviour. What I mean is, grace isn't our ticket out of hell but our fountain of cool water in the midst of it.
Divorce hurts kids, there is no doubt about that, but that doesn't have to be the final chapter. I refuse to chain my children to my side while I sit in my shit, while I stand in my hellfire. I'll accept the fountain of cool water to drink because I want to share it with my babies. I want them to know that there is respite, that redemption and new beginnings exist, and that life doesn't end at our mistakes.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Moving Anger
What do you do with your anger? I grew up with the ideology that righteous anger is "godly" and that we are allowed to be angry as long as we communicate it to God and then trust in Him to deal with it justly. The last time I checked, the G to the Oh Dee didn't look too kindly upon malicious payback involving back-alley ninja moves and ex-lax brownies. So I guess what He would want us to do is prrrrretty much nothing. And when I say nothing, I mean, we have to let go of our anger somehow in the hopes that something bigger than ourselves will make Karma our bitch, and we can just sit back and watch the curtain rise.
I can see where that idea might work for some people and maybe it IS part of the equation but I'm not too fond of the passive approach to anything; I'd much rather be proactive, bouncing around in my cheer-leading outfit, simultaneously ticking things off my to-do list and eating chocolate-covered coffee beans. So when it comes to feeling angry, my goal is to let go of it without unhealthily stuffing it. Shoving down unwanted thoughts and feelings only serves to feed a monster, and that monster, let me tell you, isn't the Sesame Street kind.
We all have choices. We all have our "fork in the road" moments, don't we? Some of them are life-defining and some of them are small but we can't neglect the fact that we are in charge of our lives. We feel angry, and we lament in anguished voices, "It's NOT FAIR!" and then what? Do we call those people out who hurt us? Or do we let God or Karma deal? For so long I have believed that taking the high road involves silence, but what about when someone breaks the law? Does authority let Karma deal with thieves and murderers or do they beat their asses to an unrecognizable pulp?
I'm not saying that violence or diarrhea brownies are the answer, and neither do I actually have an answer. All I know for sure is that sometimes life isn't fair and most of the time people hurt people and always, always, we need to deal because if we don't then it grows into something self-destructive. It's just how to deal, is what I struggle with.
Brownies are a good start, though.
I can see where that idea might work for some people and maybe it IS part of the equation but I'm not too fond of the passive approach to anything; I'd much rather be proactive, bouncing around in my cheer-leading outfit, simultaneously ticking things off my to-do list and eating chocolate-covered coffee beans. So when it comes to feeling angry, my goal is to let go of it without unhealthily stuffing it. Shoving down unwanted thoughts and feelings only serves to feed a monster, and that monster, let me tell you, isn't the Sesame Street kind.
We all have choices. We all have our "fork in the road" moments, don't we? Some of them are life-defining and some of them are small but we can't neglect the fact that we are in charge of our lives. We feel angry, and we lament in anguished voices, "It's NOT FAIR!" and then what? Do we call those people out who hurt us? Or do we let God or Karma deal? For so long I have believed that taking the high road involves silence, but what about when someone breaks the law? Does authority let Karma deal with thieves and murderers or do they beat their asses to an unrecognizable pulp?
I'm not saying that violence or diarrhea brownies are the answer, and neither do I actually have an answer. All I know for sure is that sometimes life isn't fair and most of the time people hurt people and always, always, we need to deal because if we don't then it grows into something self-destructive. It's just how to deal, is what I struggle with.
Brownies are a good start, though.
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