Anger in Her Blood
Anger is a boulder with sharp, poisonous edges that on impact will cut and leave behind a painful toxin.
I wonder if my blood has an inert anger trigger, just waiting for a catalyst to heat it up, squeezing my muscles until they are ready to throw a punch, kick out a door. More often than not, my synapses start clicking, my mind engages, and I am releasing a series of venomous verbal farts that will knock you out.
Okay, I really only dream about that super power. I am a lady, a softie, a sweetie-pie. I have always lived by the motto if you don’t have anything nice to say, say nothing at all. To do this and not die from septic shock from all the swallowed anger, I must let it go another way. Today, I hit the tennis ball. Hard. I think about what is agitating the hell out of me as I prime the ball machine. I see the source of anger in the swirling fuzzy yellow ball and whack! Ahhh, feels so good. I hit and release, hit and release until I feel better. Usually 30 minutes works for me.
I didn’t know how to process my anger until later in life. As a high school senior, honor roll student, three season athlete, captain of two sports, girlfriend to a tall, kind, attentive boy with blue eyes to get lost in, my life at a glance seemed great. Underneath, though, I had a tummy full of angst. It was churning toxic anger as I volunteered to run extra laps, stay longer at practice, perfect my free throws in basketball, jump serve in volleyball. My body was spent, yet a driving force remained. I was angry. I also didn’t know it.
I was angry at my parents for not protecting me, for being disengaged. I was angry at my high school volleyball coach when we were on an overnight field trip on Block island and as we set up tents, he told me he’d arranged for us to share a tent. Just the two of us. Fury rose up but fear claimed the moment, dictating my thoughts and actions. I was even more angry at his obvious excitement lying next to me in the dark. I was screaming mad inside as I said quietly, calmly, “I’m Catholic,’ and rolled away from him, praying he’d leave me be. I never told anyone, felt worse and worse, and began to lose dozens of pounds. I didn’t know it was anger when this coach stopped me after school in the hallway in front of the display case holding some of the trophies my teams had won. He smiled as he gave me a diamond pendant professing his love and hope of marriage. He explained the reasons I should break up with my boyfriend. I stopped eating, kept smiling, and eventually my body gave up. I never expressed any anger to anyone. I remember trying to tell my basketball coach, also a man, whom I revered, but I didn’t tap into anger as I stared at him trying to find how to tell him. Instead every word seemed cloaked in embarrassment and shame and I kept quiet.
During a play-off basketball game, I felt a pop in my lower abdomen and saw a bulge. It hurt but there was no blood and it seemed manageable so I pushed it back in and continued to do this for a week until my coach saw me favoring it and wincing. I had an inguinal hernia. Six weeks later, I had my tonsils removed. Two months later, while jogging back to the locker room from the track field, I fell to the ground for what would be my first grand mal seizure. I was raging inside but walked among everyone smiling, unaware what my pent-up anger was doing to my body.
Anger is an energy force to be respected for its power and long toxic tail. Understanding the need to acknowledge anger, then release it with grace and ease, is the critical lesson I took away from my high school.
Today, I don’t hold my anger in. I write, play tennis, and try to express my upset. Of course, I falter and am sarcastic, which my kids have let me know can be hurtful. I loathe fighting and crave understanding, peace. Anger must to respected as a source of energy. I am grateful for it. I don’t go shopping for it, but when I find I have it, I deal with it. Plus, it helps improve my tennis game.
