I have allowed this post to take its own raging path, without in any way censoring it or denying myself the emotional immediacy of a specific moment. It is an inner state I normally keep to myself. I think many of us do, having been taught, as children, not to be rude and angry and swear and say horrible things.
But, is it better, I ask myself, to let it out on occasions – or bottle it up and implode? This rage is part of the journey I have been going through in recent months. It is not NICE – nor should it be!
I hate being nice and kind and patient and, to be frank, a bit of a dreary old martyr at times. Because, when you have the ‘kind’ label affixed, those with cold hearts and the dark side of will-to-power WILL try it on, see what they can get away with, drain your resources as their RIGHT. They will expect you to give way when they walk past, to doff your hat and, if necessary, bow or curtsey – because, as superior beings, this is their entitlement in life.
I want to be a bitch! I want men to grovel at my feet, strive for my attention, fight one another to be my bloke (the way they used to back in the old days of chivalry). I want to have the power to make men desire me above all others, and to know that they have to wait in the queue to get anywhere close to me. I want to be on top of the Bitch Heap! And yet, I am scared of that too.
I want other women to be frightened of me, and watch what they say lest they offend me. I want them to see me as a role model for assertiveness, creativity – and, when the need arises, utter Evil Queen-ness.
I want both sexes to realise that, under my normally-helpful and sometimes even sweet exterior, there is a ravening lioness, a veritable Sekhmet, clawing her dangerous way out.
I want to be demanding, my every whim obeyed! I want to be a spoilt princess, and have major tantrums when I don’t get my own way – just for an hour or so because it doesn’t half wear the larynx and it does get bloody tedious after a while!
I want people to look up to me – and think twice before they speak; three or four times if they know, or suspect, that they have incurred my wrath.
I HATE being seen as a nice and kind person – because, when you get right down to it, down and dirty in the muck of truth, what do these adjectives actually mean? They mean someone who is easy to take advantage of, who commands (and merits) no respect; someone who can be left to wait outside the cat-flap while the more dominant felines (er, females) go out hunting, bring in dead rats, spray the carpet, crap in the linen basket and are still stroked to cat orgasm eighteen times a day JUST FOR EXISTING, and purring when it’s politic to do so!
I loathe being polite and considerate (both of which are treated as weaknesses by those who walk all over others in their stiletto heels); I despise the part of myself which allows others to take me for granted, even abuse me, in the sure knowledge that they will be forgiven, or that I’ll be too scared to tell them where to go.
I hate the fact that I am, for some, a thing of jelly and weak tea and boring plain biscuits and Sunday afternoons in long-forgotten sea-side resorts.
But, above all, I detest the part of me that is so scared of, and stressed by, any kind of battle that I back off, give way, allow the other victory – or, if I do stick to my guns and blow the other out of the metaphorical ring, dissolve into floods of guilty and desolate tears as soon as the smoke has cleared and the bullets have been collected.
It is unbelievably hard for me to be a Belladonna, a Cruella de’Ville, to treat others with nastiness and spite and cruelty and blackmail and indifference and murderous rage. Even when they throw such dubious gifts my way.
Details have to remain confidential on this occasion – but this wail of anger is very raw and very real and horribly recent. Suffice it to say that I have been emotionally blackmailed once too often and, yesterday, I fought back, like for like, with my own claws and teeth and stubbornness and rage and utter determination to win…
…and then wept, like a small child, and woke, terrified, in the early hours, the sheer battle-stress causing nightmares so horrific that my heart thudded and trembled like a netted wild bird.
I hate being nice. It is a useless, dangerous thing to be.
But, it seems to be part of me, like my curly hair and blue eyes and writing ability and uselessness at sporting activities.
And maybe the Top Bitches miss out in other ways. Who knows? I am not a femme fatale, a fairy tale evil stepmother/queen or a heartless cow – and wishing I were is the work merely of the storm-battered moment. But I am keeping these thoughts as I wrote them – because this mood is as valid as any others I experience.
Sometimes, I look in the mirror of heart, body and soul and can write paeons of praise about my qualities. Today, scratchy from tears and fury, I cannot.