The Coal of Anger
Anger is not something that comes easily to me, though it filled the rooms of my marital home for almost 25 years. I grew up in a far different home, where anger was not usually expressed. My parents have been married for more than 50 years, but my mother was often left to her own devices to raise six childen without much assistance from my father who loved her and us but worked in another state and was often absent from our family. She did not easily give herself over to anger. Frustration, maybe. Annoyance, yes. But anger? Not often.
Perhaps because my mother did not vent her anger at those around her, I grew up not really understanding how that could happen in a healthy context. Instead, I absorbed the message that anger should be quieted in order to please others. Despite what I recall as little direct experience with anger, I learned, early on, the effectiveness of submission as a response to it. When my father was home, his word was the final one on all issues. He was, and is, a gentle man, and he never raised his voice or hand against any of us, that I can recall, but we knew that it did no good to argue with him. He simply prevailed. Always.
When I married a man who'd grown up in a home ruled by anger, I soon realized that he'd learned anger's lessons all too well. Fury has many faces, and the one he and his father most frequently chose to use was the silent simmer of anger. The patient silence of anger. The smoldering, frozen wait of anger. With just a glance from this man, I knew when his anger had descended upon my family. It remained among us, pressing its weight upon us in a suffocating fog of righteousness, until we'd paid sufficient penance for whatever action had brought this rage to our doorstep. It gripped and held us until we grovelled and pleased and cajoled it out of our besieged existence. It, and he, prevailed. Always.
I hadn't thought much about the parallels between my father and this man until very recently. Because my father had been so absent from my growing up, I could not imagine he had a role in my eventual decision to submit to the anger my husband doled out in our marriage. He and my ex-husband are different in so many ways. My father is confident, kind hearted and even-tempered. We always knew that he loved us, even in his absence. There was absolutely nothing about him that induced fear in me or any of my siblings. He was, and is, a peaceful, loving man.
My ex-husband is volatile--rarely physical in his anger, yet we all feared him and sought always to placate and to please him so that his angry side remained dormant. As a family, we spent so much energy sidestepping his anger. As a child growing up, I spent absolutely no energy on this with my own father because he simply never was angry. What I've come recently to realize, however, is that there are many paths to a life steeped in anger. Some of them simply prepare fury's way by molding those who are subjected to it into a pose of submission. I practiced submission with my father. I perfected it with my husband.
The problem is that you cannot hold onto anger for long. It seeks its own route of escape. As the Buddha said, "Holding anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned."
I've been burned by anger far too long.
Recently, I tossed the coal of anger back at someone who'd hurt me in a way so egregious that I could not hold onto my words or the fury I felt or the hotness that feeling created within me. I threw that coal not at the person who angered me but at the shameful accusation in his words. Immediately, in the place of a long simmering coal of anger, and the inadequacy of my usually submissive response to it, I felt justified and relieved of the weight of all of the excuses I'd made for this man and his treatment of me. If ever there was a feeling of closure, it came at the moment I lobbed that coal back at him. It matters not that there is no mutual understanding or feeling of good will to bring elegant closure to our relationship. It is, oddly, a relief that I achieved none of that this time. What is important to me is the profound realization that in this instance, I prevailed.
For now, that is enough.
Perhaps because my mother did not vent her anger at those around her, I grew up not really understanding how that could happen in a healthy context. Instead, I absorbed the message that anger should be quieted in order to please others. Despite what I recall as little direct experience with anger, I learned, early on, the effectiveness of submission as a response to it. When my father was home, his word was the final one on all issues. He was, and is, a gentle man, and he never raised his voice or hand against any of us, that I can recall, but we knew that it did no good to argue with him. He simply prevailed. Always.
When I married a man who'd grown up in a home ruled by anger, I soon realized that he'd learned anger's lessons all too well. Fury has many faces, and the one he and his father most frequently chose to use was the silent simmer of anger. The patient silence of anger. The smoldering, frozen wait of anger. With just a glance from this man, I knew when his anger had descended upon my family. It remained among us, pressing its weight upon us in a suffocating fog of righteousness, until we'd paid sufficient penance for whatever action had brought this rage to our doorstep. It gripped and held us until we grovelled and pleased and cajoled it out of our besieged existence. It, and he, prevailed. Always.
I hadn't thought much about the parallels between my father and this man until very recently. Because my father had been so absent from my growing up, I could not imagine he had a role in my eventual decision to submit to the anger my husband doled out in our marriage. He and my ex-husband are different in so many ways. My father is confident, kind hearted and even-tempered. We always knew that he loved us, even in his absence. There was absolutely nothing about him that induced fear in me or any of my siblings. He was, and is, a peaceful, loving man.
My ex-husband is volatile--rarely physical in his anger, yet we all feared him and sought always to placate and to please him so that his angry side remained dormant. As a family, we spent so much energy sidestepping his anger. As a child growing up, I spent absolutely no energy on this with my own father because he simply never was angry. What I've come recently to realize, however, is that there are many paths to a life steeped in anger. Some of them simply prepare fury's way by molding those who are subjected to it into a pose of submission. I practiced submission with my father. I perfected it with my husband.
The problem is that you cannot hold onto anger for long. It seeks its own route of escape. As the Buddha said, "Holding anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned."
I've been burned by anger far too long.
Recently, I tossed the coal of anger back at someone who'd hurt me in a way so egregious that I could not hold onto my words or the fury I felt or the hotness that feeling created within me. I threw that coal not at the person who angered me but at the shameful accusation in his words. Immediately, in the place of a long simmering coal of anger, and the inadequacy of my usually submissive response to it, I felt justified and relieved of the weight of all of the excuses I'd made for this man and his treatment of me. If ever there was a feeling of closure, it came at the moment I lobbed that coal back at him. It matters not that there is no mutual understanding or feeling of good will to bring elegant closure to our relationship. It is, oddly, a relief that I achieved none of that this time. What is important to me is the profound realization that in this instance, I prevailed.
For now, that is enough.
posted by Judy at 8:55 AM
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