The 1000 Days Sober Blog

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Sarcasm: A Medium Form of Anger


My queen is full of shrapnel. 

We are slowly removing them, shard by shard, but she stills creates a queue during airport checkout. 

Words are bullets, and a wounded man’s mouth is an uzi 9-millimetre submachine gun. 

Someone whose piss didn’t stink once told me that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit. Like the sparrow sitting on my window ledge watching me peck away at these keys, it doesn’t mean shit. 

But this does.

“Sarcasm is a medium form of anger.” 

There was a time when I thought sarcasm was a cool way to keep people beneath me. 

Thanks to the great work of Karla McLaren, I know that once sarcasm leaves my mouth, someone has already burned my tofu bacon. My true self has its jacket on, and passing him on the stairs is 10-year-old Lee, ready to unleash hell onto the unsuspected villain. 

I must make them a victim. 

I must open my mouth and empty the chamber.

The stench of cordite tickles the hairs in my nostrils, and when I sneeze, I am not sure if the pressure blew her crown off or the bullets. 

Raising awareness of soft and medium forms of anger is paramount if you want to protect your king, queen, or anyone you allow into your courtyard. 

Recognizing anger in its less impactful form allows you to use its gift, notably the opportunity to fortify your boundary. To protect those you love from a part of your psyche which is just trying to keep you safe from shame, rejection and pain. 

My queen is full of shrapnel. 

It won’t be long before she’s free.

It won’t be long before I am me.