Friday, May 16, 2008
Friday's Child - Don't Make A Scene
Hello everyone. Thanks so much for reading these and for your thoughtful comments. I know it's difficult, but you've all managed to find good words and I appreciate it.
If you find yourself stuck, just say that you read it and I'll be happy.
I've added a video of Crescent Falls at the end of the post. I am sure there's a metaphor just waiting to be found, but I'll leave it where it is. The video is strictly for entertainment purposes.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Don’t Make A Scene
I’ve been trying to write a post on anger for several days now. It did not want to be written.
I feel it, but it seems to be an almost dispassionate type of anger. As if it really isn’t connected to me
I wondered about that and gave it a great deal of thought. I can express rage, especially if I’m being mistreated by a corporation or the like.
I contain my anger. I am calm. I use my vocabulary and their own policies to get the matter settled. Most people would say this is the correct thing to do and I’m hard-pressed to disagree.
It’s not like anger and I are strangers, but in a way we are. Anger equals insanity to me. And violence, too. It’s what I learned.
All those years of my sister flying off the handle over nothing has ingrained this relationship deeply within me. It’s made it difficult for me to express it any way but coldly and through tightly clenched teeth.
Being mad didn’t help me out one bit when I was young. It led to retaliation. If I got mad and kicked at my sister to keep her from hitting me, I simply got it worse from her. Seething isn’t healthy, but at least I didn’t get hit.
And I can always hear my mom’s voice, “Don’t make a scene.”
I’ve disconnected myself from the passionate side of anger. Coldness is easy. Hot anger is difficult. I can sense it inside me. It’s hidden deeply away after all those years of not standing up for myself. Of not making a scene.
I hear my sister screaming and I hear the slammed doors and stomped feet that punctuated my childhood. That’s what hot anger is to me and I want nothing to do with it
I don’t scream and I don’t make a fuss. I have trouble doing anything that in any way makes me seem like her. I was a tomboy growing up. Although that was natural to me, I may have emphasized it more than was necessary. If my sister was the role model for feminine, replete with screaming and stomping and slamming, then I wanted no part of it.
I got past that enough to get along in the world and I can get mad and keep my cool and get matters solved. But somehow I feel like I’ve been cheated.
I want to be able to have and show anger. I’m a writer. We’re supposed to show, not tell. How can I when it’s my learned response to step away from what I’m feeling?
I swallowed anger and hurt all those years so I wouldn’t draw any attention to what was happening. I decided back then that the best course of action was to ignore it. That meant not acknowledging anger or pain or anything else.
I clenched my teeth. I still do. My jaws are usually tight. I can be upset and work through it. But it doesn’t touch me very deeply.
I’m not sure if I could ever lose myself in a rage. I don’t know if I want to, but it would be nice, maybe even healthy, to know that I can.