I was crossing the street at an intersection in the Banker's Hill neighborhood of San Diego. Like many neighborhoods of my new home, this area was sorely, sorely, lacking in street lighting. Along...
I was crossing the street at an intersection in the Banker's Hill neighborhood of San Diego. Like many neighborhoods of my new home, this area was sorely, sorely, lacking in street lighting. Along with this deficiency, the crosswalks were of the "unmarked" kind, and you can forget about additional safety features like raised crosswalks and HAWK beacons.
As I am crossing, I notice an incoming driver, who seems to be stopping at the stop sign. Knowing that I am likely invisible, I start waving, hoping to get some sort of acknowledgement so I can cross in front of them. He just looks at me bemusingly, and continues on driving in front of me as I am trying to cross the street.
I am likely to regret having this feeling at all. And I know I am unlikely to have this feeling next week, or even tomorrow. But some primal part of me, despite not knowing this person or even their perspective, deeply wants to hurt them. And frankly, I am having trouble dealing with it.
I keep imagining acts of violence I can commit. As I was walking I picked up a nice rock, in case of, nay, hoping that another inconsiderate jerk proves my theory that the DMV hands out licenses like candy. I feel inspired by violent scenes like this one from 28 days later, at 7:50, and I imagine myself committing the same sort of violence against someone who has wronged me in a comparatively minor way. I feel as if the public safety system has failed me and failed society, and the only manner to fix it is to take justice in my own hands, and in a narcissistic manner assign myself the role of judge, jury, and executioner. And the great irony is, is that I feel like I must commit a great act of unjust violence in order to prevent a great act of unjust violence.
And amazingly, after writing out a diatribe on my dangerously hypocritical feelings, I feel lesser temptations to react on my revenge fantasy. Somehow, writing it out feels therapeutic, and my brain seems less fixated on fight or flight and moreso on introspection. I feel more normal again. I acknowledge my previous beliefs that karma isn't real, bad things happen to good people, and that doing bad things to others, even if I think it is just, isn't going to solve anything.
So what the hell just happened to me?