anger

The hardest lesson I learned in sobriety — a lesson I am constantly reminded of as I struggle to live one step, one breath, one day at a time — is that my anger is useless.I’m embarrassed to admit there was a time I was proud of my fury. Like it was a talent. That anger was how I would try to intimidate a universe that didn’t care what I thought or wanted, or expected. For years, I thought my anger was a superpower, that I could change reality with a snarl or a curse word. Imagine the Hulk, only he’s a messy alcoholic who once tried to beat up a bathroom stall door. I thought my anger transformed me. I could rage and, for a fleeting moment, feel less lonely; I could shake my fists at my bank account and shoot hot lava out my eyes at people who disagreed with me or, worse, tried to love me. There is a part of me that will even now choose feeling anger over other emotions, like fear or sorrow. When I’m pissed off, I feel like I’m in control but I’m not. The lesson I’ve learned is simple: my anger serves no purpose. It is like a vestigial tail. Decorative at best. At worst, it’s a primitive form of camouflage, a defensive maneuver like the way horny toads shoot blood out of their eyes at threats. I have also had to learn over the years that anger and fighting are not the same thing — an angry person lashes out. There are people who are denied their right to be angry: the oppressed, the silenced, the marginalized. Their anger can be righteous but I was born a man, and we are told that there is one emotion, or at least, one emotion we express in public, and that is wrath. Rage. Anger. It is our birthright. I don’t know why this…