an·ger

written in late July:

I brought the concept of anger to my former therapist (former, due to very angering circumstances), approaching it as I would if my mother had made me to bring a fruitcake to a dinner party. I'd been told from the get go that I shouldn't be holding it--no one should, the wretched thing. But I also had heard of those who fancied a slice of the tart stuff once and again, so I figured to me-self it musn't be all that bad, cannit? I knew there must be a piece of that cake that could be, if not enjoyed, utilized (perhaps as colorful caulk or cat food). But I wasn't sure if I should try and use it or just get rid of it as quickly as possible.

When I first thought of writing on this topic - back in January, over 6 months ago, I thought, "Wouldn't it be so cheeky and astute of me to craft a story about a misunderstood old man or a 40-year-old virgin type librarian, simultaneously embittered by the fact that his undouseable anger has given him a Scrooge-like reputation and haunted by the fact that his attempts to rid himself thereof continue to be fruitless…" But that thought came from yesterday's me, and today you get today's me, so this is what I'm going to say.

I'm angry because I'm sitting in my (admittedly adorable and craftily curated) studio apartment for over a week alone because I got covid for the third time. I'm also angry because being an even mildly-informed adult in America right now sucks. I'm angry because a system I believed was beautiful and wholesome and magnanimous is actually just bound-the-fuck-up in political platforms that are mind-bogglingly judgmental and selfish. But what I learned from this therapist (former, because…let's just say I know how deductibles work now) is that anger is a transformative little minx. I believed that the anger I carried with me to therapy in my little Baggu would, unless paired with a glass of sparkling confrontation, continually shrivel up forever, like an aerial view of a smoothie blender. But what I learned was that it can turn to contentment. Instead of a Confrontation, you can serve your anger with a glass of Boundaries, bitch. I won't go on and on about this; this is, in fact, not the prologue to my first novel. I'm just saying that boundaries are essentially distance + communication, and when you're angry, especially in situations where you feel powerless (e.g. SCOTUS nonsense) or burnt out (e.g. chronically trying relationships or over-socialization), a boundary can be a good start. It can pour a batch of concrete between you and your issue, and as it dries, you have a chance to think about whether you're going to use that concrete for the foundation of something new.