Anger & Art & Aerobics
Okay, so I work out at least an hour every single day mainly to keep myself from chewing off my own right hand or yours. I don't do well with stress, resentment and anger. I'm a crying angry person. Each time I try to express something legitimate to the person responsible I begin to sob and they predictably 1) Go "aww, honey" (husband), get embarrassed, turn away, or get confused. It's demoralizing because I want to be respected not pitied. My tantrums were part of family history, one of those adorable stories-"You were always smiling and sweet but then you'd turn red and explode." Guess what? Kids don't actually do that unless they're possessed by the devil so when I entered therapy that particular myth began to unravel.
"Where were your parents?"
"At the pub."
"And you got lost, got hurt, nearly drowned, etc?"
"Yes, but it was my fault."
"You were three?"
"Almost four."
This is my saint expression. (see above)
Well, you get my drift. So when I turned fifteen and was assaulted by my first date who told me it was my fault because I was "So beautiful and sexy" I discovered alcohol. Oceans of it. And, just like my wonderful, brilliant daddy, I also discovered that if I was angry and drank I could say the most terrible things to people and not cry. I was also very drunk and often in a black-out so it wasn't that effective and I often had to apologize which wasn't what an angry person wants to do with the person they are angry with. In my first marriage I found the perfect combination, he abused me and I drank. I could say whatever came to mind and not owe him an apology because he had hit me.
I got sober at 26, after my best friend and sister were killed and after I had descended down so far it was beyond my comprehension that I would be able to rejoin the world of the living.
Each time I sobbed in therapy my doctor sat there waiting for me to finish and then she asked the magic question, "What are you so angry about?"
Now, twenty-six years have passed and I see progress but definitely no perfection. Anger has been my constant companion during the last year and I have managed to squelch much of it through rationalization-"I'm too inflexible," denial-"She can't help herself," kindness-"Underneath is a wounded child," and pure delusion-"You don't need to feel peaceful to write."
I'm exhausted and fed up and wondering if the 200 pages of my novel actually mean anything when writing them has required I find a convenient place to shove my anger while I write about this family I've invented.
It's ironic because I have been asked to sacrifice my own sense of self in a fashion that reminds me that my grandmother once told me as a child that martyrdom would be the absolute best career choice possible. But I always sensed those saints were incredibly pissed-off and given half a chance they wouldn't accept the stabbings and the flames, they would rise up and smote all the horrible people that caused them to feel so angry.
Me, I'm off to spin for two hours.
"Where were your parents?"
"At the pub."
"And you got lost, got hurt, nearly drowned, etc?"
"Yes, but it was my fault."
"You were three?"
"Almost four."
Well, you get my drift. So when I turned fifteen and was assaulted by my first date who told me it was my fault because I was "So beautiful and sexy" I discovered alcohol. Oceans of it. And, just like my wonderful, brilliant daddy, I also discovered that if I was angry and drank I could say the most terrible things to people and not cry. I was also very drunk and often in a black-out so it wasn't that effective and I often had to apologize which wasn't what an angry person wants to do with the person they are angry with. In my first marriage I found the perfect combination, he abused me and I drank. I could say whatever came to mind and not owe him an apology because he had hit me.
I got sober at 26, after my best friend and sister were killed and after I had descended down so far it was beyond my comprehension that I would be able to rejoin the world of the living.
Each time I sobbed in therapy my doctor sat there waiting for me to finish and then she asked the magic question, "What are you so angry about?"
Now, twenty-six years have passed and I see progress but definitely no perfection. Anger has been my constant companion during the last year and I have managed to squelch much of it through rationalization-"I'm too inflexible," denial-"She can't help herself," kindness-"Underneath is a wounded child," and pure delusion-"You don't need to feel peaceful to write."
I'm exhausted and fed up and wondering if the 200 pages of my novel actually mean anything when writing them has required I find a convenient place to shove my anger while I write about this family I've invented.
It's ironic because I have been asked to sacrifice my own sense of self in a fashion that reminds me that my grandmother once told me as a child that martyrdom would be the absolute best career choice possible. But I always sensed those saints were incredibly pissed-off and given half a chance they wouldn't accept the stabbings and the flames, they would rise up and smote all the horrible people that caused them to feel so angry.
Me, I'm off to spin for two hours.
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