The difficulty with this of course, is that when you can't stand your boss - every decision they make feels like a personal attack, every thing they do, every thing they don't do - grates on the metal link of the weakening chain that is supposed to hold everything together.
I don't hide my frustration very well either, which makes things awkward. I suppose I'm like a simmering pot of water, once I reach that level - boiling point, it is an ugly shitting mess and impossible to go back. When I say that I haven't been able to forget, what I really mean is that I will not let myself forget. There's that bullshit song "forgiven, not forgotten" - I can't forgive, I can't really forget. Maybe I'm a bad person; certainly I must be a poor Catholic. I know God must be shaking his head at me in disgust sometimes.
I know I turn into a bad person, my heart turns ugly for a time, and I hate myself for being this way. I acknowledge that my expectations of people, of life, are far higher than they have any right to be. I know I can be self righteous and judgemental, my version of "right" is always better than anyone elses. I can say she does this to me, but really, I let her get to me. Like those wise ones say, we can't control the world, but we can control how we react to it. Well, me and the world have a volatile relationship - guess who's going to win.... (hint: it's probably not going to be me) Does this change the battle?... Not. One. Iota.
Today my boss served her final day as my boss, which should excite me - should make me feel proud for surviving it all - but really, I look down at my dirtied hands and rub tired eyes, and I know I am not a winner here. Our paths clashed furiously, and my road will be permanently kinked because of it.
She won't be gone completely, she will still have close links to my place of work. I may not have to see her everyday, but her name lingers on the lips of those around me; her shadow threatens to cast in cold corners. Worst of all, from the outside, she is perfectly charming, her humour is disarming, and by the look of her, you cannot tell she's rotting underneath. The washed out Italian blood that runs through my veins quickens in fury at the thought of 'her', and it may be responsible for these dramatic descriptions.
At times I have been utterly graceless and conniving, and of this I am not proud. But, she is gone - and for that I am thankful.
I'll try to grasp the lesson with both hands.