The Gifts of Anger

Yea, who thought I’d ever see anything positive coming from this plague.  While talking to Mom today about my writing and I realized the genesis of this life path started with a fit of anger.  Yes, at twelve seems a little early to start such a path, considering my idea for a cool job was archeologist.  (Actually, I still think that would be a cool job).

I don’t know the impetus of this current bout of anger, I just remember feeling the need to make myself stand apart from my family.  I was going to show them that I would write a book and become a famous author without them knowing.  Had I known then what I know now about the process of getting published, I think I might have stayed with the archeology.  If Indiana Jones were  a teacher/co-digger it would have sealed the deal.

Looking back over my words above, I realize I have become an archeologist.  I’m digging out the secretes of the lost relics of my life.  I’ve talked to my sisters about this and we all seem to agree that none of us can really remember a lot of our childhood, at least not as well as my mother seems to remember it, anyway.  It’s time to pull out my old journals and read the memories, if I even recorded them.  I’ve always used my journal more as an intellectual repository rather than the pavers in memory lane.  I hope there are enough clues to lead me to enough of the lost memories to understand what makes me, well, me.  Maybe if I rebuild my foundation I can rise from the emotional detritus, above the anger and become who I was meant to be.


You know the saying….”I’m not paranoid, it’s a rumor started by those people who are out to get me”.  I guess I’m still suffering from a bit of paranoia.  And it’s not because I think people are out to get me.

Maybe history would help in this case…..

I belong to a small congregation of one of the largest churches in the world.  Because all the congregations are small, and we believe and practice a form of 1:1 type of teaching we all know what’s going on in everyone’s home.  No, we aren’t supposed to gossip, but truthfully, a religion that has almost every carnal sin band  makes gossip fly at a greater speeds.  Not in a catty way, but in a “how can we help her with her depression/anxiety/OCD/financial problems.” kind of way.

The problem is, I’m so bad with helping other people that I feel so unworthy to have other people help me.  I know the Bishop can’t share what he knows about me due to the priest:parishioner relationship.  And you might think that the other conversations you have with your visiting and home teachers would too, and I trust my people but  it’s the ‘other’ person in my home likes to share with everyone she meets about what I’m going through, how I’m making big strides, how I’ve been struggling with the rent and so on.  It’s the Christlike attitude of wanting to help to alleviate suffering and to bear one another’s burdens to make them light

Why am I whining about this? you might ask.  I have this image of me going to church and walking down the hall with people’s sympathetic eyes following me, the silent prayers being said during casual conversations, knowing I’m lying when I say I’m ‘fine’.  See, that’s the paranoia, they aren’t out to get me, they’re out to help me when I want one bastion of freedom from my day-to-day dealings with balancing drugs, mother, emotions, and the surprises bubblings up of morsels if enlightenment from my subconscious.

Like paranoia, I have no proof that anyone knows anything other than I’m normal.  This unfounded fear has been keeping me from partaking of the sacraments of church, the camaraderie of fellow believers and the comfort that comes with it.  I’m denying myself opportunities to grow and to learn and to just be normal.  I have to stop giving into the paranoia, I can’t let it rule my life and after-life.  It’s bad enough the depression/anxiety is robbing me of the now, I can’t let it rob me of eternity too.

The Other Side Of Anger

So, I’m doing okay with my songs to sing in my head, my ability to stop the eddy that leads to the whirlpool better and faster and I’m even more hopeful now than I’ve been in months/years even.  Mom on the otherhand is acting, I’m assuming, like I used to when I was angry to either give me a taste of my own medicine or to try to get the response/action out of me that will make her the happiest.  The house is messy.  She wants it fixed so she can feel more comfortable.  She feels like she’s been cast away like garbage and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I know that’s harsh.  And not very Christlike either, but honestly she can bite me.  I’ve been staying up late waiting for her call in case she needs help going to use the bedside commode, or needs something.  After last weeks stress and shampooing the carpeting, and all the good things that are happening to me right now, I’m a little, well exhausted and cleaning house is the very last thing I want to do when I am in that state.  She is snarly, growly and very sharp with all her words.  Pretty much, I assume, what I was when I was in that frame.

It’s not pretty seeing my reflection in her behavior.  I’ve been talking to her a lot about what I’ve been going through.  She first said she had no idea, and now that she’s had time to take my words and apply them to her skewed memory, she knew something was wrong and just didn’t know how to help me.  Before, that would make me angry, but now I just find it funny.  The narcissism wouldn’t allow her to not know, and now that she does know, it will be all about how she was at a loss to help me, to eventually she was about ready to call the padded wagon to come and take me away.  That should be coming soon.

I wish I could get rid of her ‘anger’ or as I like to call this fugue she’s in a temper-tantrum.  But it’s something she has to do for herself, I can’t make it better for her any more than she can make it better for me.  What a big fat juicy dill pickle I’ve found myself in.

Shampooing The Savage Beast

I would hope that music would be what soothed me when I’m stressed, or chocolate or something more palatable, but no.  I like cleaning the carpets.  Not vacuuming, that’s for amateurs.  I like shampooing the carpets.  Of course, if you repeat this to anyone in the family I’ll deny it.  We make fun of my nephew who gets met at the door by my niece with a vacuum to help him unwind.  He will never live that down.  Can you imagine what it would be like for me?  I know, I shouldn’t be ashamed of doing something productive for my health, but my family shows no mercy to anyone that is beyond the family dysfunctional norm.  Or worse, they’re going to want me to work out my issues in their houses.  That will never happen, never, never, never!

A Peaceful Heart

A quote in Living Buddah, Living Christ by Thich Nhat Hanh sums up exactly what it is like for me when I am consumed by fire:

Anger is Hell

Don’t I know it!

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