Anger Incorporated

Creative Non-Fiction
Personal Essay
March 31, 2004
 

Anger Incorporated

 
         Is it the passion of youth? Is Anger an emotion with which everyone struggles or is there a manic condition within me that causes these drastic swings in mood, from cheerfully upbeat to seething anger? The answers to my questions were less significant than my recognition of their existence. I could either choose to continue as I had, feeding on the adrenaline created from my rage or face my demons head on. I knew that I needed to calm these intense surges of emotion that came crashing into my life with unpredictable regularity. It was not fair to my little ones, always wondering if they are going to do something to upset daddy, nor was it fair for my wife, whose endless patience had always been a source of equilibrium in my life.
         My anger was triggered by any of life's most trivial annoyances. I would become enraged at being cut off in traffic, tailgating the perpetrator of this evil deed in an unsafe display of my displeasure. I took it all personally, as if betrayed by a dear friend.
         I started to question the sanity of these impulses in my twenty-sixth year, after life had seemingly provided all that I had hoped for but had failed in soothing the unquiet within. I had reached what I assumed to be the summit of my career growth. I had a beautiful wife, and two amazing children. I should have been content but instead frustration consumed my senses. No overt evidence of an external source for my discontent was apparent and I was reluctant to accept that it may originate within. It may have been a failure to set goals that were more challenging, or maybe I had grown apathetic in creating new hopes and dreams for which to strive. I had always thought that once I achieved a certain measure of success I would simply coast along to retirement, an idea that now made the next thirty years seem like an eternity of boredom. Maybe I am one that can never be appeased simply idling through life as I saw so many co-workers doing. I found myself asking whether my ideals were both unrealistic and unattainable.
         Furthermore, there is an inherent fear of the unknown associated with confronting personal imperfections, which makes admitting you can no longer control your destiny - or maybe never could - a hard thing to accept. Besides, anger and passion lends a certain feeling of satisfaction, vitality, and power. It is a feeling of counterfeit control that serves to hobble temporarily, the monster called Insecurity. It is a familiar feeling that provides comfort through redirection, allowing the situation that is causing frustration to be shrouded by an explosion of raw emotion. However, when the surge ebbs, regret and self-loathing are all that is left as evidence of the storms’ passing.
         The earliest memory I have of my rage was in the first grade. It was a sunny day in September and it was warm enough to go without a jacket, yet the slightest cool crispness could be felt in the air. The decaying leaves emitted a potion-like aroma instilling that feeling of autumn. Haven’t you ever noticed how seasons each come packaged with their own feeling or presence? Subtle sensory triggers or cognitive inklings that alert us a change is taking place even before the obvious signs become apparent. You wake up one morning, pull on your clothes, and head outside. Before breaking the plane of your doorway, between the stagnant inside air and the fresh, aromatic outside air, you can feel something is different about this day. That was the feeling I had on the school playground in the fall of 1976.
         Her name was Annie and I had fallen in love with her – or so it felt - from the first moment I saw her. She was angelic with wavy brown hair and brown eyes that lit up when she smiled. My love for Annie was not information a six year old boy shares openly however, especially since everybody knows that girls are infected with a wide spread epidemic of the cooties or girl germs. At the age of six, boys treated girls with the same aversion that Lucy expresses towards Snoopy after receiving a big sloppy-wet beagle kiss. That is how we acted outwardly anyway. I think the only ones privy to my little secret were Annie and myself, and she became aware only after I started chasing her around the playground trying to steal kisses and gently tugging on her pigtails. The recess lady, Tillie, who looked to be about a hundred years old, had taken up her normal post at the front entrance of the school, which meant half of the playground was out of her line of sight allowing for unfettered activities of our choosing. That is, until someone would tattle or get in a fight, creating enough of a commotion to register over the intermittent whistling of her hearing aid.
         Billy Johnson, a boy in my class, must have learned of my secret love for Annie because he, too, began chasing my girl. I was never sure of his intentions. Was he trying to take what was mine to anger me or did he too have a genuine fondness for her? I had never really cared for Billy much anyway and this just gave me a legitimate excuse for my contempt. He was a short, thin, hyperactive kid with a pug nose, dirty blond hair and a military haircut. We were outside on the playground for recess and I was already engaged in my daily game of “kiss the girl” when Billy decided this looked like good fun and was soon competing with me for the attention of my future bride.
         This was not good. Something had to be done about this. Being the spontaneous and emotionally reactive thinker that I was (and to some degree still am), I decided that physical violence was the only recourse available to me (God only knows why). I do not see how it could have originated from television violence, as psychologists would have us believe. In nineteen-seventy-six, the only violence on television that my parents allowed was an occasional Western or Bugs Bunny and the Road Runner abusing the Coyote. I remember craving Annie's affection in return for mine shown for her, so it may have been a need to feel cared for by someone outside the realm of my own family. The problem lay in the lack of knowledge at the time, that much like setting the bird free to see if it returns, trying to force someone to care for you will almost certainly end in your being alone.
         Nevertheless, I challenged Billy to a duel at high noon and since noon was fast approaching, Annie would again be my property very shortly (I neglected to consult her about what her wishes might be, however).
         There was little doubt in my mind as to what the outcome of the battle at hand would be. I was fully confident that I would put this little shrimp away handily and no further action would be needed to eradicate him from Annie’s and my life for good. Unfortunate as it was for me, I found out that my lack of experience with physical aggression and the speed with which a person of smaller stature can move, would prove to be my undoing. Billy was fast moving like a wild cat, striking with random precision. Surprise was my dominating emotion. Rage did not arrive until it was too late to be advantageous to me and when it did, it was rage internalized for my own poor decision-making. I remember while wrestling around on the dew-dampened ground that I really wanted no harm to come to Billy and wishing that I had not started what he was so obviously going to finish. By that point, it was too late. I had lost Annie, proved that I could not hold my own on the battlefield, cried in front of my classmates and gotten dragged to the principal’s office by Tillie - who had a firm grasp of our earlobes - all in a matter of minutes. Unfamiliar with any outlet that might serve to eliminate my anger I stifled it deep within myself.
         I was humiliated and ashamed. Primarily at the decision that fighting was the only means of dealing with this situation. I wondered if the outcome were different would I feel any better about myself. I would have won the fight and possibly the girl, but what about Billy? He really did nothing that I had not done as well, and who am I to try to stop him from the pursuit of his desires? Had Annie not wanted his advances, would she not have stopped him herself?
         What of Annie? Annie’s reaction to the fight was not what I had hoped for either. Not only did she not attempt to console me and nurse my battle wounds and damaged ego back to health, I do not think we ever spoke again after that day. Not as future husband and wife, anyway. I suppose my embarrassment and hurt pride prevented me from approaching her, not to mention chase her around the playground.
         I guess it could be said that I crossed the first significant milestone in the lifelong process of learning lessons of a social nature that day, yet its significance was lost on me at the time. The lessons learned when we are young are less of a complete awareness behind the meaning, but more of a short-term survival instinct. The knowledge gained cannot be called wisdom until such time has passed that we recognize mistakes made and the true depth of the meaning, which is often skewed, by emotion and ego for eons.
         That incident was enough to create in me awareness in the fact that I was not a fighter nor did I enjoy the pain associated with it; in fact, the rest of my educational career I would spend avoiding confrontation. Motivated by fear of pain and the humiliation of that day I no longer intentionally picked fights with anyone and when someone wanted to pick a fight with me, I played the role of Gandhi and refused to fight back. This opened the floodgates for the wannabe bullies that did not have the fortitude to be full-fledged bullies, but knew that I was an easy target or an outlet for their testosterone-fueled aggression.
         This passivity created its own form of anger within me. I was angry for my cowardice. I was angry that I was more willing to take the punishment dished out by bullies than to defend myself and at least resolve the conflict no matter the outcome. Fighting back may have been enough to end the constant torment I endured and part of me knew that. However, I was more comfortable listening to the part of me that said, “If I fight back the pain may be more than I can endure.” So it was that I would become the target of a few mean kids, unhappy enough with themselves or something in their lives that my unwillingness to return fire became the outlet of their anger and aggression.
         As a boy growing up, I too had an overabundance of aggression and frustration, in fact I believe that I may have had more than most boys my age. I have concluded that the testosterone valve may have been turned to the full open position and stuck there, because I grew a beard and mustache before my classmates and the hellishness of pubescent change was almost unbearable. I was angry. Man was I angry. What was I angry about? I didn’t even have an answer to that question. It was a rainy day, I was angry. It was a sunny day, I was angry. I was just plain pissed. I suppose from hormones coursing through my system and making me look, act, and feel . . . well, awkward. Anger did not exit when puberty took its leave, however.
         After graduating high school, I went on to Technical College to become an Aircraft Mechanic. Anger came with me. It seemed to find comfort in my presence and me with it. We were like kindred spirits, each our own entity, yet melded as one in a cruel game of the just verses the unjust. We (Anger and I) liked to believe we were on the side of the righteous, and maybe we were.
         While attending college, I unintentionally attempted to drown Anger by the use of large amounts of liquor and beer. Although the near drowning was sometimes successful in subduing the damaging surges of Anger, it was never able to choke completely the life from the hatefulness of its manifestation. It was during this period of drunkenness while at the same time attempting to receive an education that I experienced yet another brush with rage that was to result in physical violence. This time I was not the initial aggressor. Just as it had been the first time however, it was also over a girl.
         Her name was Lori, and though she was nowhere near the angel that Annie from the first grade was, I was quite fond of her for a short span in the fog of my college career. I cannot recall the name of this second opponent in my quest to preserve the dignity of the girl on my arm. Oh yes . . . I remember it now. It was Dickey or Dick for short, how appropriate. He had been hurling taunts at my fair maiden and I at every event that we had the unfortunate displeasure of bumping into each other. I seem to recall that he was a high school dropout and a partier in a college town, which is why we crossed paths so frequently. One night, after practicing a great deal of patience (and nearly equal amounts of the fear of having my ass handed to me) I could take no more. Lori and I were at the county fair one warm summers’ evening, when through the clamor of kiddy rides, sliding of ski ball, and carnies’ shouts came the hate filled taunts from that unsavory jackass and I decided, against my better judgments and Lori’s pleadings, that I was going to kill this venom spewing slime ball. Actually, it was not against my better judgments, but for lack of any judgments whatsoever besides the one screaming, ‘KILL!’
         All the way to the parking lot, we lobbed various taunts and trash talk back and forth. We agreed on the parking lot as a venue because there, it was decided, we were less likely to be arrested, (Remember this; it becomes important a little further into the story.) Upon reaching the parking lot, I began sizing him up and taking inventory on his physique. He was about five inches taller with a reach that appeared to be several inches (or more) longer than mine, but I had rage on my side not to mention a dose of liquid courage and I did not think that he expected me to take him up on his challenge in the first place. We circled like wolves fighting for Alpha role. I lunged and he popped me. I countered his blow with one to his chin. I went at him again. By this time, a large circle of onlookers had formed. I rushed him once again and again he connected with a fist to my chest. I propelled myself into him with a burst of adrenaline-fueled rage, knocking him to the ground. I was on top of his chest, a leg on each side as I began pummeling his face and head. His arms moved in front of his face to shield the blows but I worked them into either side of his arms connecting with his temples and the zone around his ears. He was not even attempting to move; he just lay there with his arms up blocking as many blows as he could. His friends began taunting, “You pussy, let im up,” and, “Fight fair you pussy.” Up to this point, I had no idea that we were fighting with rules of engagement or gentleman’s etiquette, but I could not allow myself to win this fight by unacceptable means. I jumped up with rapid fluid motion calling him to get up so I could finish it fairly. He was up and charging at my midsection before I could react. Lesson number two in fighting. I guess tall people can move just as fast as shrimps when provoked. I stumbled backwards and he landed on top of me just as I had done to him a few short moments before. The difference being, he had my arms pinned to the ground at my sides with his legs so that only my head was protruding from between his thighs in an almost perverse fashion. If I had more knowledge of the rules and proper etiquette we were operating under, I would have known whether it would be acceptable to use my teeth at this point, as they were the only thing that I could move that would have succeeded in inflicting pain. Boy, would that have been pain; his children (assuming he could even have any after that) would have been born screaming. With my face fully exposed, he began beating it like a drum with his tightly clenched fists, driving them downward like pistons. Surprisingly enough, only the first few blows carried with them any degree of pain, after that numbness set in and swelling began to obstruct the view of oncoming fists. I could not move regardless of the adrenaline at my disposal, so I waited patiently for the end. As I lay calmly praying for unconsciousness, a thought came to me. Why was it that his friends were no longer crying foul? It was then that I realized my mistake had been to be influenced by the taunts of his friends. I thought, “how naïve of me to let this happen.” As this semi-clear thought passed through the confusion that was my mind, he flew from the top of me as if he were floating upward. “How was that possible?” I wondered.
         Then, through the glazed over fog of blood and gravel in my eyes, the large profile of a dark blue uniform and the glint of the fairs lights reflecting off a polished badge answered my question. Suddenly, I too was floating skyward as another officer jerked me to my feet. They put us into the back of the same cruiser where we were allowed to talk trash to each other on the way to the lockup, while sitting on our cuffed hands, blood, and gravel dripping from our wounds. After booking, I spent the night in a nice padded cell on a thin bedroll laid atop a rectangular concrete slab jutting up from the floor. “Why had I let it get to this point?” I wondered.
         Why had I allowed words to bring me once again to this familiar point of pain and humiliation? Was it from lack of imagination or creative alternatives? It felt right at the time, but the feeling I woke up with in jail the next morning told me that I had maybe not thought it through carefully enough. My left eye swollen shut and my nose blocked from clotted blood was enough evidence for me that fighting was still not my forte and that my options were to gain more experience through practice or avoid it altogether. I tentatively decided on the latter. It did feel good when the advantage was mine and I was pummeling his punk ass head into the gravel of the parking lot, but this memory did nothing for me but fill me with the fear that I may enjoy the taste of blood and the act of inflicting pain on others. I knew that I did not want to reach a point where violent confrontation became a more attractive option than alternate means of problem solving.
         However, it was not to be the last physical encounter of the aggressive kind. The experience presented itself while enrolled in college; however, this time it came to a more peaceful end. It again was centered on a girl (surprise, surprise); although this time, the girl was not mine. It was the girlfriend of a classmate named Jack. Jack suspected she was cheating on him. I agreed – again in a state of limited motor function - to back him up in an early morning raid on the residence of the accused. He handed me a baseball bat as we got into his Camaro IRock-Z for the trip accross town. When we arrived, Jack knocked on the front door, when there was not response he attempted to break the door down. The suspect finally answered the door before it suffered any permanent damage and we rushed the interior, pushing him back against his refrigerator and questioning him in a not so cordial tone. It ended peacefully this time, although barging into another man’s house in the middle of the night wielding baseball bats, while in a drunken stupor, could have met with a tragic end. What is it they say about bringing knives (or bats) to a gunfight? Thankfully, there were no guns wielded in opposition to our wooden clubs, although there was a shotgun leaning against a wall in the kitchen that was never handled as far as I know. I remember seeing it sitting there like an ominous sign of future misfortune, knowing I did not want my life to end in a hail of bullets or buckshot. The next day I had a lot of time alone in my tiny college apartment, nursing my hangover, to replay the foggy details and construct alternate endings that had less than desirable outcomes. It was at this point that I began thinking about my own mortality and fragility. I was eighteen years old and headed down a path of certain self-destruction. Was this what I really wanted in life?
         I decided changes had to be made so I removed myself from the crowd that was enabling me to expose myself to this type of risk. I no longer went drinking with them and I refrained from participating in any additional covert mercenary operations. However, removing me from the situation did little to remove my old friend. You see. . . Anger lurks.
         Once out of college and working as an Aircraft mechanic there was little room for error and frustration at work. I was able to curb the emotion for eight hours a day, only to have a reserve built up for my wife and children at the end of the workday. They became the victims of unintentional emotional outbursts and the frustration that would have led to losing my job had I allowed it to flow freely at my place of work. It did not take long to realize that they were not the problem. I was the problem. Anger was jealous of my new family and newfound career success. It was trying its best to chase the good things from my life. This I decided was unacceptable and I would not allow it.
         That is when I met Dr. Jones Atkins. He was well trained and highly accredited in eradicating Angry outbursts and other behavioral abnormalities from people’s lives. After many months, I slowly began to gain some control through behavioral modifications and techniques prescribed by Dr. Atkins as well as recognition of early signs of an imminent outburst. I would get cut off on the freeway and feel the familiar inklings start creeping to the surface but instead of impulsively reacting I was able to channel the emotion back to its pit of darkness. I would think, “I wonder why they are in such a hurry? I hope it’s not serious.” Instead of playing the victim myself, I made the perpetrator of the offensive act the victim and tried to feel or see things from their perspective. Although things are much better than they were, it is still a struggle on occasion and I am quite certain it will always be so.
         The alternative however, is worse than that of the lifelong struggle for which I am faced. Because after the roar of stomping feet, slamming doors, and the senseless shouting . . . an almost deafening silence fills the vacuum created by the firestorm of emotion as the air begins rushing back into the room. The cracks under doors and between the windows frames are not enough to prevent the surge of this vacuum’s draw. As the vacuum sucks enormous volumes of silence and oxygen back into the stagnant, decaying, stench of the room, a freeloader accompanies it. Anger has left. Anger always leaves. It goes somewhere to revitalize I would imagine. That is why this freeloader feels comfortable in the void where Anger was. It knows that the room no longer poses a threat and so it enters. It relishes its time with me. I however despise this uninvited visitor as much as the evil entity it is replacing and every moment that it spends in my presence is agonizing. Its name is Guilt. Guilt is like the nosy little sibling of Anger who enjoys breezing in after there has been a commotion, never getting into trouble itself, but stirring the pot and sticking its tongue out at you when it sees you are down on your luck. It revels in the misery of others and soaks up all of the pain and despair that it can consume as if to elevate itself to a state of worthiness or esteem. This, my friend, is why I must eradicate Anger, so I may also remove its all-consuming relative, Guilt. I will win or die trying, giving up is to give up on the possibility of living to the fullest of life’s offerings, which to me is harder to think about than the seemingly endless work involved in ridding myself of Anger and his bratty sibling, Guilt.