Mental booby trap.

I experienced what I can only relate as an "emotional panic attack" this weekend.

This past Saturday, I traveled to the Triad Highland Games in Greensboro. Being my first ever Highland Games experience, you'd think I'd be ecstatic. Those of you that know me understand my fervor and excitement for my Scottish heritage. Scotland is like my home away from home - a dream destination that I hope to visit and/or move to one day.

"Slàinte mhath!"

Needless to say, the event did not go as well as I planned. Instead of being happy and excited, I was miserable. Looking around at all the history and culture that I mentally swim in almost daily... I just locked up. Oddly enough, I grew distant and became horrible company to keep. I resorted to being short and snippy with people. The sad part? I didn't even know I'd morphed into a vile monster until after the fact. In the midst of my ass-hat extravaganza, I was unaware that I'd channeled a pool of dread into my demeanor.

And there I was - pushing away people that cared for me and wallowing in my own anger.

Eventually, I fell out of my funk after watching border collies chase sheep for forty five minutes. As if in a stupor, my anger switched to guilt and I emotionally turned off. By the time I made it to lunch, I was an emotional wreck. Trying to hold myself together, I felt it bubbling up.

And by it, I mean my age-old sense of never being good enough for my father.

It just kind of spilled out of me while I was driving. I can't fully explain why I had this "emotional panic attack", but it felt like I wasn't deserving of enjoying my love for Scotland. The fact that I attempted to assimilate into the Scottish culture more directly sprung a mental booby trap. Better yet, a demon reared its head and said "No, you don't GET to be happy. You must SUFFER!"

"Suffer my boy! Mwahahahahahahahah!"

I realized at that moment that I'm thirty years old and not fully capable of letting myself be happy. Why? Because I'm still trying to satisfy a tyrant that lorded over me as a child. I must admit - it takes a POWERFUL man to control your life long after you've exiled them from it. Therein reflects the hold he has upon me. I can't let myself be happy because I was never given the command to do so. It sounds strange, I admit. If anything... I just feel guilty and ashamed for letting it get to me. Jared Manning - a passionate bastion of strength and independence... and I can't even allow myself a moment of joy. I punish and torment myself every day. Over what, though?

What did I do to deserve this hell?

The torment spilled over into Sunday. More of the same emotional distance was in order. I floated in and out of concentration, even when performing simple household tasks. I couldn't even cut carrots and make dinner without feeling empty and utterly pathetic.

Someone very dear to me levied a powerful judgment over the weekend. They suggested that I am self destructive when I reach for happiness.

Were they right?

A temporary fix.

Interesting fact... I'm much more fun when I've got a few drinks in me!

It's 1:30 pm on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. The birds are chirping. Sunshine is all around us. The trees are releasing their pollen and turning our vehicles a lighter shade of yellow. All in all, it's quite a marvelous day.

Alternatively, I've been in a horrible, depressed mood all morning. No real reason to be so... just have been. In the course of correcting my mood, I've ingested roughly five shots of whiskey in forty-five minutes. I feel great!

As I sit to write this blog post, I must face a harsh self-criticism. I shouldn't use alcohol to make myself feel better. Now mind you, I don't drink that often. In fact, when I do drink, it's usually just one mixed drink in a pint glass. I definitely don't meet the criteria of an alcoholic. Alcoholism runs in my family, though; I must be cautious with my drinking habits. I do find it terribly amazing how alcohol can make one forget all their sadness and animosity... even for just a short while. Scratch that -- forget is not a proper word. Perhaps I should say subdue. Yes, let's rephrase that.

Alcohol can subdue all the sadness and animosity I feel.

It's a temporary fix to a long term problem. It's also one I shouldn't be exploring. It's too late now though. Best to write about it, get the emotions out in the open and move forwards.

The other point I'm reminded of in my libatious debauchery is how, no matter the positive progression I make towards emotional wellness, the rot that exists in me will always be there. A small fragment of the poison that has tainted my existence shall forever hook itself to my being. Again, this blog aims to educate myself in how to best contain that poison. Perhaps my heart needs a hazmat suit?