I sulked, pouted, and felt like bursting into tears at work—like this part of me would always be there: the impatient, impulsive, jealous self.
by Jane D.
I've crumbled under the stress of city living and a crazy job made crazier by the downspiraling financial markets. This morning, I snapped at the boss and colleagues at our weekly powwow. The boss was giving me a hard time about one of my ideas that I'd worked long and hard on, and I took the whole thing very personally.
Her rejection was so familiar to me, like all of those men, all of those undependable guys, like the non-existent mother, so familiar that I lashed out at her. Forget about the acting tips that I'd worked so hard to perfect. My face at the meeting showed anger, disappointment, hurt, and, as the sister often says, "Even Ray Charles could read me."
The meeting went silent. The colleagues include a quirky guy who doesn't wear shoes, but his sense of humor is infectious. He can make the world's biggest stick-in-the-mud smile. Then there is the other colleague, a woman who is chatty and outshines me with her Katie Couric perkiness. And within minutes, I had reverted to my 10-year-old self, defensive, envious, and pining for attention.
I wondered if it was the Meds talking. Maybe it was making me more depressed and angry. I sulked, pouted, and felt like bursting into tears at the meeting. I feel like this part of me will always be there, the impatient, impulsive, and jealous self.
I talked to the father about the episode, and he said it was immaturity. I needed to grow up, he said. I know, I know, my Ph.D. scientist-swimming friend would chalk it up to potential hyper-glycemia and tell me to get a blood test. Or is it too much Diet Coke? I wish it were that simple because I am trying so hard that it hurts. I hope the boss and colleagues forgive me in the end, but I'm also sick of apologizing.