So it’s not just me?
Snug in my hand, the coffee cup is still warm. The last dregs of bittersweet liquid lie waiting for me to tip them into my mouth, but I’m absent-minded. I feel relaxed, despite the early hour, and my lack of plans for the day ahead. I feel…fine.
So why such violent thoughts?
In my fantasy, my morning drink flies through the air in slow motion. Coffee explodes against the wall, splashing out in all directions, syrupy globs finding far flung homes as the cup disintegrates into chunks and chips and a spray of fine powder.
Cut to me on my hands and knees, dustpan and brush in hand, cleaning up my own mess.
I always will have to clean up my own mess. It really takes the fun out of things.
For someone who spends a small but decent amount of time idly wondering what would happen if I threw this cup against that wall, or dropped this glass on that floor, I am not a person who smashes things.
OK, I’m not a person who smashes things often. I have smashed things, two or three things, over the years, and they were always my things. In my (over)reaction to a situation concerning another (intensely shitty) person, I have only ever destroyed my own property. A boombox, kicked down the stairs. A remote control thrown at the wall. Maybe it was only two things.
I wanted to punch a wall once, but I stopped myself just in time. It’s one thing to break your things, another to break yourself.
The first time I watched Robin Ince perform his brilliant blend of intellectual conversation and observational comedy was at The Tobacco Factory in Bristol in 2017. The show was called “Pragmatic Insanity”, and he had invited me to perform a song. I can’t remember what I played, but I distinctly remember Robin talking on stage about how, when you’re holding someone’s baby and your brain shows you an image of you dropping them, this doesn’t mean you’re a terrible person who wants to hurt a baby. It means you know not to do that.
When I idly picture myself throwing a coffee cup against a wall, is it just a reminder to myself that I’m doing ok?
“Look”, my subconscious says, “you could be doing this – but you’re not! Well done. You’re not smashing up your life or scaring your loved ones. You’re holding it together, even though there are way too many things to juggle. Here’s what you could be like, and you’re much better than that. Go you!”
Or is it a warning – this sort of thing could be next?
The two recurring fantasies I’ve had over the years are:
1. letting go of the handrail at the top of the stairs and, ever-so-gently letting myself crumple. What would happen? Would it hurt? Would I actually even fall? (I have a weird fear of falling down the stairs, so this is a peculiar one I’ll admit).
During past times of peak stress and sadness I have connected this idea with craving a quiet, clean room with nothing in it, somewhere I can rest and no-one can ask anything of me.
2. standing in the kitchen, calmly and systematically going through each cupboard, smashing every single piece of crockery on the floor with a slight smile on my face.
To be clear: when I’m thinking these thoughts, no part of me thinks I’m going to do them. But they’re there. And they do keep coming back.
A few weeks ago I told my husband I’d been having the smash-the-crockery fantasy again, and he cheerfully informed me about “smash rooms”, also known as “rage rooms” and “anger rooms”.
What? You can go somewhere and pay to smash stuff up in a safe environment? So it’s not just me!
That really cheered me up. In my enthusiasm, I found a “smash room” not far from home, and of course immediately started thinking about the potential for a very fun slow motion music video.
Must I always make every fun new thing into a project? Yes, yes I must.
A few weeks on, I’m not feeling smashy any more. I haven’t been to a “smash room” yet, and perhaps I never will. Perhaps just knowing that I could easily go and do some smashing outside the home has reduced the urge.
More likely it’s all the stupid exercise, spending time outside and eating healthy food that I’ve been doing. Bah.
Either way, we’re all weird, but we’re not all completely different in our weirdness. The dark urges I only ever confessed to my beloved are so NOT unusual that a number people have gone into business to support them. A 3-second internet search brings up three separate brands running these places in the UK alone.
We’re not as unique as we think. And I find that comforting.
Love,
Laura xxx
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