In the Lady Garden...

Bah - have I caught you all out again?

Naughty, naughty peoples. Okay... I'll 'fess. I did it deliberately just to get you here.

I have spent most of today, in between the rain showers, in the garden. Ripping out weeds, cutting off branches, culling, tilling, working out my frustrations.

I am pissed. Actually, I am tense and because I am tense I am pissed. And so off to the garden I run, taking out the boundless frustrations on the rubbish which grows where it should not.

Tomorrow I have to have the last of my scans. I know, logically, that it is unlikely to be anything, but we all know that being sensible is not the most obvious of my attributes. Okay, not really one at all. I don't like this sort of stuff, puts me on edge.

And to add to this, a mother at the school has decided I am to be the focus or distraction of her rage because her life sucks. At least, that is the interpretation I am getting from others. All because of a Facebook comment, taken the wrong way (personally), explanations, clarification and apologies all ignored. FAAARRRKKK - I thought I had left primary school a long time ago, but no. This nearly 50 year old woman has absolutely fixated on me being the root of all evil. Personally I think it is an altogether different type of root she needs and it ain't the kind I was ripping out of the garden today! Hasn't been an issue, but this morning I didn't realise I was parking near her... until Boy 2 said: "Mum, what have you done to that woman, she looks like she wants to kill you!" Look across, and yep, gaze of death glaring through my windscreen.

Had to laugh when I explained what had transpired in brief and he responds with "Great, another person who is in dire need of mental health." And they wonder why I say he is my mini me? And no, I didn't go off about her or her issues, merely said she had decided not to talk to me anymore after the FB comment and told him what it was. Because it seriously was not bad, and it was about special needs which he understands the implications of.

And honestly, most other days I would have laughed it all off, but this is not most other days... it is the day before. So I am allowed to overreact! After all, I am nothing if not a  

PS Garden is gutted. Totally.

The Black Panther.

I have a panther, a sleek, black panther. It is not a black dog, oh no. I also have a black dog that slinks into my life, tail between its woe-is-me, quivering, shaky legs. It whimpers and whines, pitifully pawing until it draws me down to the floor to sit in an empathetic haze of misery for hours, days or even weeks. 

No, this is a creature of far greater ferocity. Sometimes it lies sleeping, content to rest camouflaged by the shadows of life.

 

Until injustice, discrimination, or the pure evil which seeps from the internally putrid will awaken it from its slumber with an almighty roar. Rousing it from a supine sprawl to stir, wanting, craving to pounce. Yes, my midnight shadow is an animal of black fury, justice and retribution. It is full of fire and fight, ferociously fierce in its defence of all those beloved in my heart. It leaps with rippling rage into my head from the slightest of provocation, willing me to release it to tear, mame, and shred with powerful, unforgiving, dark, dripping jaws.

I am forced to hold the leash tight, restraining my animal lest it do irreparable damage, keep it caged until all other options are depleted. And then, only then do I unclip the collar and finally permit those who transgress to feel the hot panther breath enveloping them as they face the big cat in full attack.

When Lori wrote of the battle to break with her black dog it struck home, and roused me to post of my dark creature. For whilst her black dog, like so many, is full of pain and bleakness, my midnight brute resonates with wrath and suppressed violence. Held in check by small, slender bars of logic, attempting to contain this living instrument of restitution.

Those held locked in my black panther's dark, steady gaze need to be afraid. Be very afraid.

Supermarket Rage or Trolleys at Ten Paces...

I am so angry, so very, very angry. I have just returned from our little rural supermarket where I have had a lovely interlude with a local lunatic. Nope, not anger talking, the truth... because this is the second incident with the same nutter in the last two days.

I suppose I need to start at the beginning. Yesterday morning, bright and early, I picked up Wise Woman for her quarterly blood tests (need to check no return of insidious lurker). We arrive a few minutes after the local pathology place opened, popular as ever, we were seventh in line (they have a number system). A couple more people arrive, grab numbers, sit. Friendly repartee and conversation, jokes about it being the hub of the town abounded. THEN in she storms. Under five foot tall, full of venom, spitting mad.

"YER KIDDING ME! IT'S JUST FRIGGIN OPENED AND UP TO NUMBER TEN ? I AM FUCKIN PISSED OFF, YOU HEAR ME, PISSED OFF...." Yeah, we hear you, this waiting room is tiny, we have no choice but to have our eardrums bombarded..."THREE FUCKIN HOURS EVERY WEEK I WASTE HERE. HAVE CANCER AND HAVE TO COME IN EVERY FUCKIN WEEK. I AM PISSED OFF, REALLY FUCKIN PISSED OFF!"

Grabs number, all the time glaring around as if her rage will force someone to meekly offer their place. Not a chance in hell after that tirade, sister. Off she storms, muttering, cursing, giving all the evil eye as if we were responsible for the crap in her life. Much mirth and laughter follow her departure, and quite a few comments on anger management courses.

Fast forward to today. Standing in the aisle, Boy 1 and Boy 2 join me after borrowing some library books. Talking to one of my oldest and dearest friends and her two kids. Not blocking the aisle, though Boy 1, reading his book, was probably a little too far in the centre.

I didn't hear her until she shoved past Boy 1. Apparently she asked him to move over (I didn't hear her so it couldn't have been very loud). He, lost in his book, DID NOT HEAR. So she pushed past and then loudly started ranting about what a rude child he is, what a terrible boy, how he has no manners, called him a little pig, all the time walking.

I see red. At this point I did not even realise it was the same nutter! My friend looks at my face, goes "uh-oh" (she knows how cutting I can be when my blood is boiling), grabs my trolley as I stalk off.

Turn into next aisle where nutter is still loudly denouncing my child. I storm up to her, and her husband, and go "EXCUSE ME!" She stops babbling venom for a minute, I jump in. "My son suffers from autism spectrum disorder. And aside from that, he did not hear you, I did not hear you. He is not rude, but you are. You should see someone about that attitude problem!"
"Well, how was I to know, he hasn't got a sign on him has he?"
"Neither have you, and I think you are far more in need of one!" I know I said more, but I was shaking with my own rage at that point. Ever been so angry that you cannot remember what you said? Well, that was me.

I stormed back to my trolley. Friend is doubled over in hysteria. Mind you, this piece of work still ranted the whole way around the shop. My friend overheard her still carrying on in the last aisle. And came and told me at the checkout. It was at this time I realised WHY she looked familiar. It was the head case from the QML waiting room!

What a piece of work. Every one faces adversity in their lives, everyone has problems. Do not use illness as an excuse, it is not. It is the same as me running around with a frown on my face, hating the world because my son has Asperger Syndrome. We all have bad days, but this one... well, I think she has bad lives.

And as for my ill-mannered boy? As he was faded out he heard not a thing. When we arrived home he happily helped his Madmother unpack the car, as in his words:

"I like helping. It makes me feel good to be nice."

Yeah, some bad attitude kid I have there. NOT!

One hand waving...

I have awoken engulfed in rage. I am angry, really angry. Triggered by an inanimated object's breakdown (my computer crashed and lost a lot of important financials as it was in the midst of a long, complicated process by one of the programs), my outrage has turned to other events over the last few weeks.

I am sick to death of the two-faced liars of this world walking away without fallout from their actions, I am tired of being made out to be the bad guy, I hate that people are so gullible as to believe the falsities that dribble venomously from tainted lips. I am so sickened by the actions and nastiness of others that I am succumbing to the temptation of joining them in the abyss.

I have all their secrets. I am a ticking bomb sliding uncontrollably towards detination. And I have proof of their words, deeds and lies.

I do not want to be like this. It is against my own personal code of honour to betray even the most insidious villian, especially as it will hurt those who are being sucked in by their untruths. I am not like them, twisted, warped, so caught up in their web that the lines of fact and fiction are perpetually entangled in their own bitter brains. But it is so tempting. And I am so angry.

There are times I know I am quite capable of turning into the very thing I despise. This is one of them. I do not like this.