Anger is not an emotion I ever feel comfortable expressing. I prefer to deal with anger the normal way: I swallow it like six-alarm chili and let it eat away at my stomach lining. I know I inherited this trait from my mother who retreats into her shell like a hermit crab when confronted with a situation that sparks confrontation or some form of vitriol. For the most part, this tactic works for her. When she presses her lips together and withdraws into her cone of silence, I get the feeling I've just watched the torture and mutilation of a miniature schnauzer puppy. Guilt is her most effective weapon. My dad, on the other hand, is much simpler to read: if his voice rises a few decibels, face turns red, and words like "god dammit" and "son of a bitch" come from his mouth, he's pissed.
In some ways, I think my father's method is a little healthier, although he has a tendency to hold grudges longer than the Hatfields and McCoys. On the other hand, my mother simply acts as if no disagreement or argument has occurred after the fact. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she suffers some kind of narcoleptic spell when tempers flare, wakes up when order returns, and looks around like Rip Van Winkle, bewildered that everyone appears ready to cough up a hedgehog.
If you're wondering why I'm giving you this lesson in the archeology of familial anger, it's because I lost my temper today. Actually, saying I lost my temper is like describing the burning of the Hindenburg as static electricity. My bout of fury was the equivalent of a California wildfire, the kind that leaves behind acres of ash, smoke, and the skeletons of houses. Even as I was in the middle of my tirade, screaming like a rabid chimpanzee, I thought to myself, "Have you lost your fucking mind?"
I don't really remember all I said. I know I used some colorful verbiage and that my heart felt like it was crawling up my throat to do a flamenco dance in my temples. For a few moments, I had an out-of-body vision of myself: spit flying from my mouth, face flushing the shade of a boiled lobster, hands shaking like I was in detox. I swear at one moment I began speaking in tongues.
Let me say that my explosion was a long time in coming. It was the result of quite a few months of overlooking and ignoring and avoiding. I'm not going into details or naming names. This blog is not the forum for that, no matter how tempting that prospect is. (I'm not a big fan of revenge, but I do like justice. And if that justice resembles revenge, all the better.) However, when you start calling people on the carpet, you take the risk of sounding like a kindergartner, at best, and like an asshole, at worst.
So, let me clear up any confusion or questions for my readers right now: I was an asshole. And I was an asshole in front of a sizable group of people. That doesn't mean I didn't have good reason to be angry. That means I came off looking like Joaquin Phoenix on a bad David Letterman day: a little weird, a little scary, just this side of violent, but much better groomed. I'm not proud of the way I behaved. I'm not proud of the manner in which I expressed myself, although I should get a few extra credit points for creative use of the word "fuck." In the aftermath of the episode, I felt like a citizen of Hiroshima, walking around the city after the bomb, surveying the devastation, and saying, "Wha' happened?"
(On a side note, this encounter is so unlike me that most of the people present sat in dumbfounded silence. This may be because they didn't want to become collateral damage, but, for the most part, I think it was just plain shock. It would be like my father meeting John Wayne's secret gay lover. I saw it written on all their faces: "Who is this guy and why is he waving his gloves around like he wants to challenge someone to a duel?")
So, as I sat down to write this post, I was drawn to Saint Milburga, an eighth century princess who gave up her castle, Cinderella gowns, and tiaras to become a nun. She founded a convent, gave sight to the blind, and, in the last years of her life, came down with a "painful and wasting disease," according to my book. Of course, Milburga never complained about her illness. (Complaining, for me, is an art form I cultivate. It requires two parts smart ass to one part truth, with a dash of irony. I will never make the roll call of saints, unless God needs a patron of sarcasm.) But these facts aren't what drew me to this holy women. There I was, wallowing in the Pit of Despair, and I read Milburga's dying words: "Blessed are the peacemakers."
It's bad enough thinking you're an asshole without having a saint's last words verify it. So, I guess I've learned, the hard way, that anger, while a valid emotion, needs to be trained and focused, like a bonsai tree. It can be used as a catalyst for good and change and beauty. Jesus was a peacemaker, but he blew his top a few times. He whipped the money lenders and merchants in the temple, and he got a little testy with Peter.
But I'm pretty sure he didn't tell anyone to "fuck off."
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