I drove out of the parking lot thinking that this year I should really get my act together. The thought of getting my act together usually started this condescending self-lecture, a choice made consciously to buy my way into being cross with myself; then I would be sad and sorry that I angered myself, and this type of mental circuality would distract me from the increasing anxiety levels the my body warned me to keep it real, but integrate a delicate denial of the situation and also be fucking calm. Just fucking don’t give in. If you give in, you will have to call 911 and you will break.
I didn’t call anyone on the way home. Mostly I was uncharacteristically calm with the occasional palpatation and intermittent jumpiness. I made it home without killing myself or anyone else on the road, I interfered with my natural ability to go into an attack, and I surprised myself further by not stopping at the liquor store or the bar.
The day after New Year’s weekend was a good day to be fired, I thought to myself.
The Space You Left Behind 