Recently a friend commented that my blog posts are syrupy sweet. I don’t disagree with her assessment, but believe me, I am no Polly Anna (for my younger readers, Google it). I do not view the world through rose-colored glasses. Don’t get me wrong; I am not a cynic. I am not a glass half empty. What I am is angry. Not about everything. Not all of the time. But I cannot deny the deep seed of rage sowed in my DNA. Certainly, my wrath is congenital, not environmental. My brother, sister and I are close in age. Despite being raised in the same home, by the same parents, our temperaments are so very different. Kim works to keep the peace in all situations. Scott lets things roll off his back and moves on, and I … I rage at the world.
My ire is uniquely awakened by injustice or more accurately, my perception of injustice of any kind or any depth. And let’s face it, the world is full of injustice. Even when you are not looking, it knocks at your front door. Hence, I constantly battle a personal civil war in an attempt to keep my rage socially appropriate, and my self out of jail.
As a toddler, before I could speak, I would bang my head on the floor in painful solidarity with my nonverbal fury. (The childhood photos showcasing prominent bruises on my forehead were, indeed, not from child abuse but rather an outward sign of my worldview.) When my parents consulted a doctor, they were advised to ignore my behavior because it was obviously an attention-seeking tactic; walking away would extinguish my antics. WRONG. I banged my head when they walked away … when no one was looking … when I was alone in a room … I banged my head for years.
Throughout my youth, my temper was even less controlled. Hell, it was not controlled at all; I doubt a day passed without it flaring. I tried to keep my anger in check, but it always got the best of me. My dad called me “Wasp Nest” … shake me up a little and watch me explode … and I did.
Mom did not allow us to “stick out our tongues” at others, but in my indignation, I wanted to. I needed to. Face it; some people deserve a sassy tongue pointed in their direction. But I obliged my mother’s demand. Not because of my self-control, remember, I had NO anger management skills, but because, I covertly “stealth-stuck” my tongue at those wielding injustice. That’s right. I pressed my tongue firmly and fiercely against the back of my front teeth. No one could see it, but I knew it … I knew I was sticking out my tongue, and that is all that mattered. (I still secretly and shamelessly stealth-stick my tongue out when necessary.) It is a wonder that I didn’t need corrective braces.
Unfortunately, as a child, most of my rage was no secret. It was obvious to the world. Ask my sister, my sister her who had a front tooth knocked out by her crazed little sister madly swinging a croquet mallet. Kim was not the intended victim, but that did not stop her from loosing the tooth only a short time before her high school senior pictures. My anger, I felt, was justified. My actions, I knew, were not. For the first time, this frightened me. I feared I would too easily spiral down the Pissed-Off Rabbit Hole, never to return. I did not want to hurt anyone ever again (even those who I deemed deserved it).
And so began an unsuccessful attempt to control my rage. When I could not tamp the anger, I focused on controlling its manifestation. I fumed, internally, and successfully suppressed and stifled my reactions. It was not healthy; my veins bulged, small capillaries under my eyes burst, my body trembled, but no harm came to others.
And then one day, decades later, I had an “Ah Ha” moment. The heights of my deep-rooted rage are only matched by my equally innate ability to recognize beauty in the simple, and to love whole-heartedly. It is the Yin to my rage Yang. This, too, was planted in my DNA; it always has been. By celebrating both extremes, I honor my true spirit.
I have come to accept that I, by nature, am easy to anger. I carry an internal rage-bomb waiting to explode. When most of my friends are at peace with themselves and with the world, I am not. It’s not me. I am at an age and stage when I no longer attempt to stifle or suppress my rage at injustice, nor do I believe I should. Why shouldn’t I be enraged, enraged into passionate and assertive action? With that said, I balance this wrath with my personal Yin. I savor beauty, I dig my toes into the sand as I walk on the beach, and I write about love. My syrupy sweet posts are my personal reminders that beauty is all around, and just like injustice, this beauty is also knocking at my front door.
Lovely!
Thanks!