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 is: are men bred for war? Is testosterone just violence juice? Or are we, as a species, lacking in imagination? Are we incapable of entertaining in our big monkey brains all the new, wonderful, scary, beautiful ways humans can be so we settle for our basest, most animal behaviors? Are we lazy? There are people who have a right to stand up for themselves and for their loved ones, and god bless them, they get right up in faces and they don’t back down. I’m different. Not everyone is a drunk thank Crom. I am privileged, like a little lord. My sobriety requires that I constantly check in with myself and ask how I’m feeling, and every time I ask myself that, or if anyone asks me for that matter, I am desperate to answer “fine.” Because the other emotion men are allowed to feel is nothing, a hole, a grave, I claw open my chest up with my fingers and its midnight inside me. “I’m fine.” I am not fine. I know when I get angry that I am not centered, that I am flopping around in past pains and future anxieties when I’m furious, I’m checking out, I’m wrestling Minotaurs who do not exist. They are imaginary, I’m sorry to say. I prefer to wrestle made up monsters than the consequences of my own actions. When I’m angry I am avoiding my true feelings, and I have been so angry the last 24 hours or so, fucking livid, and I know that I am deeply, deeply sad and terrified for myself and for people I love and worry about, I worry so much about what will be and what has been, and both of those places have been and can be dark. I am so fucking angry I don’t know what to do, I wish I were a grenade. But, friends, another lesson that I only learned because fourteen years ago I said enough, I said I want to live and feel and fail, and I asked for help and I learned that anger and fighting aren’t the same thing. That anger destroys but fighting can create, build, lift up. It is good to fight for what you believe in, for your neighbor and your family. Anger sizzles and flashes but joy is bright and warm, blinding at first, and then you get used to it, you open your eyes and you can see for miles. Rejoice! I am sober because I want to live and I fight, day by day, to live and be part of the lives of people who have fought for me. I am afraid and I grieve but I will fight. I am not fine, we are not fine, but we will fight. I am afraid and I grieve. I will not be angry. I will carry my emotions into battle, on my back, my hurt and confusion and hope. I will carry my fear. I was angry but that is over now. I saw what it was. I gave it a hug and told it to sleep. Anger will not save us. To some, anger is fuel but to me, it’s a Snickers bar. I cannot fight the long fight powered by corn syrup. I need nourishment for this marathon in the darkness; so compassion is my gasoline. I will fight and I will fight with a heart full of love and that fight begins and ends with my choosing to not drink and to feel everything and to be honest and to listen. To you. How are you?