Saturday, February 11, 2012

Hormones Rear Their Ugly Head... Again

English: Coat of Arms of Florence, Italy, trac...Image via Wikipedia
I don't know about you, but my hormones are making me crazy.

Yes, some of it is age, but most of it is that wretched bitch, Florence...and yet again, I do not mean Italy, and some of it is situational.

Hormones plus bad past life experiences plus current issues can raise hell even in the best of relationships; one of which I currently happen to be in. Even so, what my hormones are telling me I am hearing is not what is being said, and I am in the process of imploding.

One would think that seeing the implosion as it is happening would mean that I should be able to stop it cold and get back on track. It should mean that.

However... what it does mean is that I speak and act and project my issues... unabridged... and that can get ugly. Fears and insecurities seeping out for anyone wise enough and with enough give-a-damn to recognize them wrapped in their armor of bitchiness. Those that are not or do not, find themselves run through with my rapier. While those that are or do get the nicks and cuts all the same.

My sharp tongue doth cut a swath! (sorry, I'm reading Girl With A Pear Earring by Tracy Chevalier... It's returned my thoughts to my thrice ingrained Shakespearian training)

Seriously though, my mother has told me for years that my mouth was going to get me into trouble. I'm a verbal mess. Which is probably why I prefer to write... I can edit myself.

So I find myself feeling incredibly precariously positioned even though I'm in less danger of messing up than I think I am; if I get off my ass and do what needs to be done without the snarky comments. My past is just rising up to meet my circumstances and slap me around a little.

Ah, the vast landscape that is the battlefield of my particular mind. Its a battlefield we all face though, in our own way. But the committee in my mind has grown wise... and sneaky. Instead of shouting at me until I was nothing more than a vessel, bursting forth with exact phasiology from inside my head; now it whispers gently, almost imperceptably... but with greater manipulation.

So I am left to tame the shrew as it were, and not behave as one. Registered & Protected
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