I once shattered my cell phone into pieces when I was so enraged by a conversation that I hung up and threw it across the room. When I got up and retrieved it, I was not satisfied. It was perfectly fine. So I chucked it again, harder, with more intention. I knew before I got it that it worked that time. I destroyed it. I felt a surge in my body, a sense of power, satisfaction. Until, like an ocean wave, I felt pummeled over with a kind of sorrow that felt it would drown me.
The next day I took it to the Apple store and the guy asked me what happened.
“I threw it,” I replied blankly.
“Oh,” he said, his eyebrows raised.
“I threw it twice, actually,” I continued, “the first time because I was hurt, the second because I didn’t know how to use my words and it felt great at the time.”
He didn’t reply this time, but whatever gratitude for my honesty he might have felt had now visibly turned to concern. I guess I was looking for some kind of connection, like, “oh yeah I’ve thrown my phone” or “I’ve felt that way before” but I guess I should expect less from customer service interactions. It’s not the confessional booth, after all.
Many of my friends are parents, including my two brothers. It’s pretty cool to watch those you love raise humans—watch them wrestle with their own feelings and needs as they try to love and care and teach.
Once, on a visit to their new home last summer, my friend Lindsey and her three small kiddos under the age of 5 decided to walk around the neighborhood. The oldest two had those cute little scooters while the baby was strapped to Lindsey’s chest in a carrier. One of the two was just not having it as we were leaving the house—crying, frustrated, overwhelmed.
I waited on the steps below, unsure of how to support my friend, so I occupied the other child on the sidewalk. I watched Lindsey bend down and hold out her right hand, all fingers up, like she was counting to five. “Can you take a deep breath and blow out the birthday candles?” she asked.
Sobbing turned to those heaving deep breaths. Slowly, they blew out a candle. “Great job! Can you do another?”
Ultimately, in the end, what was needed was rest and they decided she would go inside with Dad while we continued our walk. Our hearts were bummed but I told Lindsey that I needed to learn that candle blowing business myself. We laughed. But I’ve thought about it many times since when I feel overwhelmed.
Anger isn’t bad. I didn’t really know this until recently. I’ve spent so many years trying to not be angry that I haven’t been listening to myself. No wonder my anger is like a kettle on the stove, screaming. Our responses to anger can vary, and if we can’t self-regulate, then anger can be violent, explosive, harmful. But anger in itself isn’t bad. In fact, it’s a healthy and normal response. It’s usually a part of ourselves that is asking to be heard, to name injustice, or a boundary crossed, or express pain. So much of my anger is hurt that feels too vulnerable to name, so anger gives me a safe and distancing response. It takes work to sort through the storm it launches, until you find yourself buried under it all, and what you wanted was compassion, and tenderness, and a hug.
A few weeks ago I was invited to see Kristin Chenoweth at the Nashville Symphony. It had been ages since I’d been downtown and I didn’t plan accordingly for the amount of traffic or the cost of paying for a close spot. By the time I parked, I was gone. Anger came a knocking, and rather than holding up my hand and bringing out some birthday candles, I opened the door and said, “Come on in, anger, let’s go to the symphony.”
It was one of those bitter cold wintry days, the kind where your eyes water as soon as the wind hits you. I got turned around in the parking garage, walking in staircases and then walking back out. I ended up exiting on the backside of the building and was even more disoriented. All I could hear was “You live in this city and you can’t find your way across the street?” kind of crap. Shame is the best co-pilot to anger I’ve ever known, and it’s sneaky too, making you believe it’s you.
I walked in and my friend I was meeting called me. I’m on the phone with him, trying to connect, when a woman is trying to get my attention. “Ma’m, ma’m, he’s asking to see into your purse.” I turn to realize I’ve walked past the security guard in an effort to find my way inside. I drop my purse down, but he can’t touch it. I’m still on the phone with my friend, and my senses are on overload. I’m feeling foolish for not being able to handle it all.
By the time I make it to my friend, he receives the whole brunt force of my fears, frustrations, feelings. I felt safe enough to let him see my ‘shadow’ side and just exclaimed— as if my whole countenance didn’t give it away— “I’m frustrated.”
I had checked adulthood at the door and was in desperate need of birthday candles.
(By the way, Kristin was amazing.)
I guess I’m telling you all this because I want to talk about anger— especially as a woman.
What do I do when I feel anger? Why have I spent my life trying to hide it, only to watch it leak out sideways? Or then when it leaks out sideways, trying to clean up the mess (more hiding) and never addressing what it was trying to tell me?
I’ve spent too much time being a doormat. What I want to be is a door.
A door: I can open and close. I have boundaries. I know when it is time to open, when it is time to close. I respect myself. I know that I contain multitudes, and one of those good and right and normal multitudes is anger.
I do not know how healing happens. I do not know much about these mysteries of faith. But I know that Jesus didn’t create doormats.
And I know a common command was to get up, not sit down.
I’m going to thank my anger for trying to tell me that. I’m gonna keep practicing self-regulating, and blowing out my birthday candles when I’m feeling overwhelmed. But when I feel anger, I’m going to say, “yes?” and listen first.
One practice for feeling anger I have found helpful
It seems counter-intuitive, but lay on your back, legs uncrossed.
Lay one hand on your heart, and one hand on your stomach.
Feel it. It might feel like spastic energy, like trying to start a dying car. Let it come.
Stay there until other emotions come. Tears, or stillness, or rest, or sleep.
The is such a "much needed" way for us to look at our anger. Let's blow out the candles...
I would love to visit with you about anger...
I am rarely angry, or angry in a way that I acknowledge. I too have found value in naming my anger, even telling Mt wife..."when you do this it makes me angry"...which is far healthier than saying, no I am not angry, and then later exploding. or shutting down.