Why You Mad?

I grew up in a very loving home, but to be fair, you could insert any emotion into the sentence "I grew up in a very ________ home," and it would probably be applicable. I come from a people of strong reactions, and I've learned the hard way that the rest of the world just doesn't quite function the same way that my family does. Last week, as Kellie Pickler won the mirrorball trophy on the 16th season of Dancing with the Stars, I sat on the couch counting the number of times I had touched each pillow (5) as they announced the results. Partially obsessive-compulsive charged, partially emotionally charged, I needed to do whatever I could to see Kellie win. And I'm not sure that my persistent touching had anything to do with her victory, but when they announced it, I let out a throaty yell from the couch lifting myself from the cushions. My roommate Ben recorded it, and it hit me, I must be like an animal to these people. All the tears and yells and laughter... they don't even know what it means.
And that's always been the problem--getting people to understand. It's not so much that you need someone to talk to after the fact as much as you need someone to just kind of get what's going on when it's happening. When I come in with a 6 pack of beer, My Best Friend's Wedding, and a pint of ice cream, I want someone to be able to look at me and say: hm, the movie means he's sad about relationships, the ice cream means he doesn't think it's going to get any better, and the 6 pack is because he doesn't care. That's a complicated puzzle, and it's hard to expect anyone to ever get it--not without a solid 5-10 years of experience with you--but when you find those people, it's more important than you know that you hold on to them--especially when the uglier emotions come out.
And that leads me back to sophomore year of college--a year that has provided me with some of the most absurd stories I've ever written. If you wanted to shine as a student in campus affairs, you were a resident assistant. Because our class was super competitive, we had a list our freshman year of who we thought would get hired--naturally, I was a shoo in. Before my first year, if you were an RA, you were pretty much set in a position to be an RA until you graduated. However, when it came time to be placed in your next building, we were shocked: we all had to reapply. I dove into my presentation and application to distract myself from what had been on my mind for months--the fruitless crush that I had based the latter half of my sophomore year on. I could control this application. I could control the accompanying presentation--or so I thought.
When we signed up for interview times, I went for the earliest spot that I could find: third. I didn't realize who had signed up before me though. Being an overachiever, I got there early and what did I see? The love interest... and the other man. About a month before the interview, I knew that I was out of the weak link of the love triangle, so I had avoided the situation entirely. That was the only way I knew how to deal with it--avoid it. But there they were sitting and enjoying spots 1 and 2, and there I was... number 3, which seemed oddly appropriate. The other man was spot 1, so we were sitting together waiting on the first interview to wrap up. Once it was over, the other man came and sat next to me, and I said, "Isn't your interview over? Why are you still hanging around?" He responded, "Oh, I just thought I'd wait until this one is over... you know, for support." And then he smiled. Instantly, I felt my stomach start to fall, almost so fast that it could have broken the chair I was sitting in. To anyone else, it would have been annoying, but to me... it was devastating. It was exactly what I needed to break me before I went in for my interview, and it worked like a charm.
I stepped into my interview with my literary themed presentation with fun little titles like "I Know Why the Caged RA Sings," and other things like that, but my performance was lost. I walked into the room in a daze--the year before, the whole interview felt like a conversation, even when I was getting hit with really hard questions. This interview though was more like a train wreck happening at seven miles an hour. I went through each slide and unconsciously read directly off every one. All of my moves were awkward, and when I asked for questions at the end, the panel sat in front of me with the most confused faces without a single word to say. I walked out of the room devastated--for more reasons than one.
I knew exactly what I needed to do, or more so, exactly who I needed to go to. I got in my car and drove directly home--to the people who taught me to react the very way I've come to call normal. I drove thirty minutes home and hopped out of my car, slamming the door behind me. I walked inside and saw my dad. I need a gun. Without saying anything else he said, Which one? I responded, The .45. My dad walked to the gun cabinet and got it out with two clips, and turned around and asked, Animal or human target? I just stared at him for a moment with my pissed off expression, and he said, Human target it is. And then we walked outside, I put on the earphones and shot 10 rounds into the target, unloaded the clip, reloaded the next one, and fired 10 more shots. I took the earphones off, and he asked, Alright, are you ready to talk about what happened? And then we went in and I explained everything: the crush, the other man, the interview... all of it.
For clarification, I don't shoot other people when I get angry. This isn't Bad Boys or anything. And when I was shooting the target, it's not like I was imagining anybody's face on it. But there's something special about being able to walk into your house and ask for a gun and not have anyone asking what you're going to do with it. It's a side effect of someone knowing you well enough that they just get it. So my response happens to be shooting inanimate objects, touching things obsessive-compulsively, and celebrating a little bit more outwardly than the next guy. For other people, it may consist of being completely reserved to pretty much every emotion across the board. Doesn't matter how you handle it really as long as there's someone around that understands how you react and why you do it.