I become unhinged. Not dangerously, as my physical outburst days are long behind me, but loudly; OK, very loudly. And I am not in any way kind when I loose it. I discard tact and lay out every single solitary gripe I have in me; from the bugs in Texas to how I am the only one that scrubs the toilet even though I'm not the only one that uses it. I do it in a brutally honest, as-I-see-it way. I'm not always completely accurate, but I am completely emotional, venting with every ounce of my personal energy. My restraints become completely undone, and I have to verbally puke out all of the angry-ugly until I've fully finished my tirade so that I may return to my usually calm and stable self. If I snap in the morning, I can actually go on and accomplish a lot with my day because afterwards I feel cleansed, cleared and as empty as the first keg tapped at Oktoberfest.
I do go along for very long stretches of time without snapping, but when I blow, I put nuclear weapons to shame. I have never understood why this my process, but my process it most definitely is. I've analyzed and meditated, and it happens with a lot less frequency than it did in my teens and twenties, but I still do this despite my advancing age and maturity. After all these years, and so much self-analysis, soul-searching and emotional healing work that I've done, I can not seem to squash this particular personality flaw.
For some reason, I don't seem to realize that I was so stuffed full of emotional garbage that a blow-up was inevitable. If I were able to recognize it before my own personal Armageddon occurred, I would have come up with a much more civilized way of dealing with the purge long ago. I would let it out like a steam valve on a well regulated schedule, a little bit at a time instead of going off the chain like a banshee. My words bursting forth in a gravelly scream-yell, aimed at whomever is in earshot with all the sting of small-caliber bullets and tears streaming down my face uncontrollably. To any observer, I'm sure I seem in desperate need of a strait-jacket.
I've decided that these must be the times preachers are referring to when they say, "for better or for worse...". I sometimes wonder if hubby would have married me if he knew that I had this infrequent, but recurring glitch in my software. That my horns would pop out like daggers and I would become a horrible site to behold. It's a good thing that it happens so rarely... and that I've already got the ring.