The Red-Eyed Monster

I am a very angry person. 

Generally, I keep it under cover.  When I talk about it, I use words like “resentment”, “frustration”, “discomfort”, or even “concern.”  Mostly I stew silently, hating myself for being a wimp.

I’ve read the books.  I’ve listened to the stories, cheered the successes, cried over the failures.  I’ve even coached people in anger management. 

I’ve been lectured, punished, prayed over, and exorcised.  I have pep-talked myself, bashed myself, rationalized and justified, self-soothed, and tried to escape. But the red-eyes monster is a permanent resident in my life.  In my moments of sanity, I realize that it is a terribly frightened part of me that needs love and attention.

In a glorious display of uninhibited self-expression, I once threw a full-length mirror down the stairs.  I will never forget the feeling of satisfaction and release I experienced when the glass crashed and splintered.  That was my personal primal scream, serving notice on the universe that I was a dissatisfied customer and wanted a refund. But the relief was short-lived, and the mess took a long time to clean up. I decided that breaking things and people was not an adequate solution.

Anger is a useful and necessary part of our emotional immune system.  It gives us the strength to set boundaries, to say no in the face of disapproval, to carve out our own territory and defend it.  It can send us on perilous quests for justice and fill us with determination to accomplish the impossible. It empowers us to protect the people, ideals and property that are the most important to us. And, like electricity, fire, or any other manifestation of powerful energy, it can get us into terrible trouble.

Early in life, I learned that permission to be angry was related to the chain of command.  Anger came from above, and could only be passed on to someone or something further down the hierarchy of power.  Even that could be risky. 

If someone bigger than me became angry, I would probably suffer violence.  If I became angry, I would probably suffer violence.  The safest thing was to numb out what I was feeling and jump through the hoops of compliance with a smile.  The result was akin to an auto-immune disorder.  A gift that was designed to protect me began to destroy me from the inside out.  For the first fifty years of my life, I was convinced that my existence was a mistake and the universe would be better off without me.

My mother often diverted her anger into helpless weeping, but under the right circumstances, she could become an unstoppable force of nature, like a tornado.  She grew up in the streets (those were the days when children were sent out to play when they were not needed at home), burdened with the responsibility of taking care of her baby brother, who was very good at picking fights.  When she was cornered and knew she could not win, she did as much damage to her opponent as possible on the way down.  She once won a fight against a much bigger boy while she had a broken arm, using her plaster cast as a weapon.

My own early life was much more sheltered. The streets of post-war Germany were not considered safe because so many buildings had been reduced to rubble, with the added hazard of unexploded bombs.  I spent most of my time with adults who were suffering the aftermath of terrible losses, and struggling daily for food, fuel and shelter.  My interactions with other children were almost invariably a disaster.  They dictated what we did and how we did it, trashed my toys, and borrowed things with no intention of returning them.  I had no idea how to defend myself.  I believed that people would always take what they wanted, and it would hurt less if I offered no resistance.  Despite my best efforts, I was never safe from unprovoked attack.  I almost lost an eye from a close encounter with a beanpole wielded by a boy I did not even know.

I was eight years old when I boarded the HMS Fairsea with my mother in search of a better life in Canada.  I knew about illness, death, critical fuel shortages, violence, homelessness, and missing limbs.  I knew that even the animals in the zoo were hungry, and their keepers were grateful for every scrap of food we could collect and share with them. I knew nothing about politics.  I was too naïve to realize that the adults who were kindest to me were part of the mysterious Enemy who had killed my father and destroyed so many homes and families. I had no idea that my mother’s job as a live-in maid for British army officers was a serious social disability.

I know now that the teacher who beat his pupils so brutally was a war veteran with serious mental health issues.  I know that people stole my mitts because they were cold, and that my mother sometimes cried because she had no way of replacing them until she had time to knit more. She did without food and cannibalized her body by giving blood too often and thanked God for the Swedes who set up feeding stations so that children could have at least one nourishing meal a day. I often rode on her back during black-market expeditions to barter with farmers who were willing to hide some their produce from the government system. 

When I was an adult, my mother often apologized to me for abandoning me to questionable child care.  I assured her that starving to death in her arms was less romantic than it sounded, and I was grateful for everything she had done to ensure our survival.  But while I was living through the daily horror, with no control over my life and often with no idea where I would sleep that night, it was an ongoing nightmare that made no sense.  I tried to look cheerful because it was expected of me.  But I was often shaken awake during night by concerned adults who told me that I had been screaming in my sleep.

During my teens, when my life had become less chaotic, my emotional numbness began to thaw out.  I was still shutting down during a distressing situation, but after a couple of days, I would start ranting and raving.  Most of my tirades were about injustices others had suffered rather than difficulties of my own.  I am still much better at defending others than I am at advocating for myself.  

I often fantasized about martyrdom – one glorious moment of defiance for the cause of freedom and justice and universal harmony, followed by swift death before I had the chance to recant.  Then, perhaps, my life might mean something.

My step-father, a life-long farmer, was wise in the ways of animals.  He taught me that there were times when we had to back off and wait for a beast to calm down. This was especially true if the animal was panic-stricken.  People are not much different.  In time, I learned to cut myself some slack and take steps to solve my problems while I was in my right mind.

My anger surfaced increasingly during my twenties.  I was in my thirties before I could become angry without being swept out of control.  I thought I was cured.  Twenty years later, I discovered that my anger was still alive and well, but buried more deeply.

I was already a mother when I experienced the practical usefulness of anger for the first time.  I was taking a walk with my two-year-old son when we were accosted by a snarling dog.  I picked up my child and stood still, talking to the dog soothingly.  This had no effect whatsoever.  The weight in my arms became heavier and heavier while I waited.  Finally, I decided that my only option was to kill the dog. I had no idea how I was going to do it, but I was absolutely determined not to let him hurt my child.

I took a few moments to gather my strength for the battle.  Then I put my son down and faced the dog with a mighty battle cry.  The dog ran away.  I imagine I looked much bigger and more dangerous once my anger obliterated my fear.  I probably even smelled different. This was a major revelation to me.  I realized that I was not condemned to be a prisoner of learned helplessness for the rest of my life.

One of the things I learned in my journey was that I need to be healed where I was hurt.  Talking to third parties can be a helpful prelude, but final freedom can only be found in confronting the what – or whom – I perceive to be the source of my anger.  There are times when I have to speak up or implode, even if the outcome might turn out to be inconvenient.  

My expression of anger does not have to be dramatic or harmful, but it does have to be authentic, and forceful enough to be taken seriously. I can’t claim to have an impressive success rate, but when it works, it works well.

During the empty nest phase of my life, while I was riding a city bus in Victoria, one of the passengers wanted to exit from the front door.  The bus driver told him that he had to use the back door.  This unleashed a tide of profanity that was so violent that my inner child became terrified as the man approached my seat near the rear exit.  I knew that unless I did something, I would be upset for the rest of the day, and I would find it harder to ride the bus.  While the man was waiting for the door to open, I interrupted his stream of profanity with my most authoritarian teacher voice.  “Sir – it is illegal in this country to engage in abusive behaviour in a public place.”  (This was inspired by an incident reported by a friend who was working in a convenience store.  When a customer was shouting at her on the phone, a policeman who was waiting in line to make a purchase asked her to hand him the receiver. He identified himself as a law enforcement professional and threatened the upset man with dire legal consequences if he did not hang up immediately and change his style of social interaction.)

The man stared at me and snarled, “Mind your own business.”

“It is ALL our business!” I proclaimed. “We have the right to ride this bus without being subjected to this kind of behavior.”

The bus had grown very quiet.  Time stood still.  Then, just before the door opened, another passenger said, “She’s right, you know.”

The man got off the bus with no further comment.  I felt strong and unafraid.  I liked myself.  I had made my statement and I had been heard.

When I saw the same man later in the day, I felt no animosity towards him.  Just compassion.  I was sure that there was more wrong with his life than a bus driver who refused to bend the rules for his benefit.  We were both caught in the same web of rage. Perhaps, in time, we could help each other find a way out.