I’ve been doing well with my anger management lately, much better than I’ve been doing in my attempt at putting out regular blogs. I haven’t punched, kicked, or cursed anything for a long time. I can play video games and listen to the Blue Jays on the radio and wait for buses—historically, my three biggest agitators—without freaking out when things go wrong. Hooray for me! It could be that I’m repressing, but I don’t think so. I just feel calmer, more in control of my emotions, more able to let things go. More patient. And I don’t feel like a blowup is one frustrating moment away, which is how I often felt in the past. So I’m not walking on eggshells all the time. Instead, I’m learning how to interpret events in a better way, learning not to take the frustrating events so seriously or personally. I am becoming the duck’s back, so to speak, and those frustrating events the water sliding off me. I almost want to say I’m getting on a roll, but I don’t want to let my guard down. I know that at any time my patience may be tried. But now I see those times, those frustrating events, as opportunities to hone my patience. Humans aren’t born patient. Just look at the peckish infant who screams until mother offers her tit. Honing patience requires practice, and this world offers many opportunities to practise patience. Yet in the last month or two, I’ve rarely even felt angry. The only times I can remember getting angry were the times when I saw people littering. For some reason this really bugs me. I have a tough enough time seeing the city’s streets and sidewalks dotted with discarded containers and wrappers and whatnot, but when I actually see people flagrantly littering, like for example opening a pack of cigarettes and dropping the cellophane wrapper on the ground, I just want to grab them and yell at them and break all their fingers. Maybe punch them in the nose. I want to tell them how inconsiderate and lazy and arrogant they’re being. I want to punish them. But I don’t have that right. So I find myself stuck in that frustrated space between what I see and how I want to respond (but know I can’t).
I have serious issues with littering. Besides the obvious aesthetic and environmental problems it creates, I’m also bothered by the fact that litter is a great form of free advertising. How many times have you been walking along the street and suddenly out of nowhere you think, Boy, I sure would love a Big Mac right about now. Chances are you’ve just passed a McDonald’s wrapper flattened into a prominent display on the pavement. I can see those corporate executives sitting around their giant rectangular varnished oak table in Conference Room B, rubbing their hands together in glee at the idea of their products’ branded packaging lying in the gutters and on the sides of the roads, tempting passersby with subliminal reminders of their products—advertising for which the company doesn’t have to pay an extra dime!
Researchers at Australia’s Monash University, interested in how much “free” advertising litter actually produces, recently collected a week’s worth of branded litter from a nearby park and laid it all out side by side. The presumably smelly collage of wrappers, bottles, cigarette butts, etc. measured 30m². To put this in financial perspective, a billboard that size would cost an estimated $32,000 annually. And that was just a week’s worth of litter collected from a small park in Australia. Imagine how much annual advertising savings are produced through the littering of branded packaging worldwide. Billions? Trillions? And how much of that is being spent by the companies on cleaning up the mess? A lot less, I’m sure. Like, one hundred percent less. At the very least, these companies who profit from litter should use some of those savings to help fund the clean-up. A more drastic—and satisfying for me—measure might be to fine companies for littered packaging that bears their logo. And then use the collected fines to fund the clean-up. Sure, I know, the companies aren’t the ones actually littering, so why penalize them? My answer to that is: Because they can afford to pay the fine. Though I’m sure in the long run such a tactic (i.e., fines for logo’d litter) would probably just lead to logoless packaging. Which maybe isn’t such a bad idea.
But getting back to the litterers, the end users of the product who carelessly discard the packaging: what is going through their brains? Do they figure their mommies will clean up after them? Or have they just never learned to take responsibility for their actions? I think nothing goes through their brains. It doesn’t take much to crumple the refuse and put it in a pocket until a trashcan is within reach. When I see someone littering in public, I wonder if they also litter in their own home. Maybe they do; maybe they drink their soda and toss the empty can on the floor, expecting someone else to pick it up. And maybe someone else does pick it up. Whatever. That’s their prerogative. As the saying goes, people can do whatever they want in their own home. But public spaces are everyone’s property—mine, yours, hers, his. Ours. So I take it personally when people litter in public, like as though they’re littering on my property. (I’m aware of the difference between my own exclusive private property and my shared-with-everyone public property, but in this case I find that difference insignificant.) I should probably work on this reaction of mine. Because such thoughts make me feel vindictive, make me want to go to the litterer’s house and throw stuff on their lawn. Or yell at them. Or assault them. But if I do those things, I’m merely indulging my feelings of anger—the very thing I’m trying to learn not to do. These moments, when I see litterers litter, are perfect times for me to practise patience. To take a deep breath and try to become the duck’s back. Or maybe wish their littering bothered me as little as it bothers them.
21.6.07
28.5.07
Leafs Junkie's Lament
270507/2354—Here we are once again, on the eve of my favourite two weeks of the year: Stanley Cup–final time. And for the third consecutive final, a Canadian team is battling an American team. Usually in such a case, the question of whom I’m rooting for is, to use a basketball metaphor, a slam dunk (would that be a mixed metaphor, then, using a basketball expression in a hockey context?): the Canadian team, of course. Only, this year that formula has encountered a snag, so I’m going into the Cup final with seriously mixed feelings.
Canada’s representative, the Ottawa Senators, has been dynamite since Christmas, and when the Stanley Cup tournament commenced in mid-April, I (purely objectively) picked them as a dark horse to win it all. Their performance in the first three rounds, as they tore through Pittsburgh, New Jersey, and then Buffalo, served to solidify my hunch, but also to push me closer to this abyss I’m now gazing into. See, the Sens are the Toronto Maple Leafs’ provincial rival, and I, unfortunately, am a long-time Leafs junkie (yet another example of my masochistic tendencies). So how can I in good conscience cheer for Ottawa? At the same time, how can I, a hockey-loving Canadian, in good conscience cheer for an American team? I don’t think it even snows in Anaheim.
Hockey fans I’ve talked to are divided into two camps: Leafs diehards are cheering for Anaheim, and everyone else is cheering for Ottawa. Polls across Canada reveal similar allegiances. Apparently, there’s no room in Leaf Nation for the idea of Ottawa winning a Cup. The thought is tantamount to sacrilege, blasphemy, Hell freezing over. I wholeheartedly concur. “No Sens No!” This antipathy is of course rooted in deep-seated envy and bitterness, but that just proves how neurotic Leaf Nation is. I usually laugh when I hear what Gino from Woodbridge has to say on the FAN radio call-in shows, or when I read what he writes on the Sun “Have Your Say” page (yes, I listen to sports radio and occasionally read the Sun). But suddenly I find myself agreeing with him. I don’t think I can find it in my heart to root for Ottawa. It would complicate my already-complicated feelings for the Leafs. Indeed, every time I caught myself cheering for Ottawa against Jersey (only because I hate Jersey more than I do the Sens), I felt like I was cheating on the Buds.
On the other hand, wouldn’t it be so nice for Canada to bring home the cup for the first time in fourteen years? As a hockey fan, I’d not only scream YES!, but also admit that Ottawa would be a very deserving winner. The hockey they’ve played in the last six weeks—hell, since Christmas—has been nothing short of terrific. They’re as dominant a club as I’ve seen in a long time—just look at the teams they beat in the first three rounds—and it wouldn’t at all surprise me if they win. But as much of a hockey fan as I may be, I’m an even bigger Leafs fan. And I’ve already explained what that means. If there were a Leafs Fans Anonymous, I’d have accomplished the first two steps toward joining: 1) admitting that I’m powerless over my addiction, that my life had become unmanageable, and 2) coming to believe that a Power greater than myself could restore me to sanity.
Here’s the stat that kills me: Since the Leafs’ last Stanley Cup appearance in 1967, every team except four expansionists (Atlanta, Columbus, Nashville, and San Jose) and one transplant (Phoenix) has at least been to a Stanley Cup final. (Technically, the Minnesota Wild haven’t made it, but the North Stars did.) Even the two Floridian expansion teams and Carolina (transplanted from Hartford) have made it. Now Ottawa has made it too. In the long run, then, not getting there seems tougher than getting there. Yet Toronto’s shutout streak remains intact, and hearts around Leaf Nation remain broken.
One thing I do love about the Leafs’ missing the playoffs is that I can watch the games objectively, without all the emotional turmoil of worrying that the Buds will lose. So I’ve really enjoyed the last two post-seasons. Last year, the first post-lockout playoffs, the hockey was excellent, and the Cinderella Oilers surprised and charmed a nation, only to fall in Game Seven to the Hurricanes. I rooted for the Oilers, of course, but seeing them lose wasn’t even remotely devastating for me, not like a Leafs loss would be. This year, the hockey hasn’t been quite as exciting—maybe because the refs have called too many chintzy penalties, or because the games have been low scoring—but I’ve still watched every game I can, hoping the Sens wouldn’t make the finals yet fearing they would. Now my fear has come true. So I find myself stuck on a barbwire fence. I honestly can’t cheer for either team. And I can’t cheer for both teams, unless . . . They can split atoms; can they split personalities?
One thing’s for sure: I won’t miss a game.
Canada’s representative, the Ottawa Senators, has been dynamite since Christmas, and when the Stanley Cup tournament commenced in mid-April, I (purely objectively) picked them as a dark horse to win it all. Their performance in the first three rounds, as they tore through Pittsburgh, New Jersey, and then Buffalo, served to solidify my hunch, but also to push me closer to this abyss I’m now gazing into. See, the Sens are the Toronto Maple Leafs’ provincial rival, and I, unfortunately, am a long-time Leafs junkie (yet another example of my masochistic tendencies). So how can I in good conscience cheer for Ottawa? At the same time, how can I, a hockey-loving Canadian, in good conscience cheer for an American team? I don’t think it even snows in Anaheim.
Hockey fans I’ve talked to are divided into two camps: Leafs diehards are cheering for Anaheim, and everyone else is cheering for Ottawa. Polls across Canada reveal similar allegiances. Apparently, there’s no room in Leaf Nation for the idea of Ottawa winning a Cup. The thought is tantamount to sacrilege, blasphemy, Hell freezing over. I wholeheartedly concur. “No Sens No!” This antipathy is of course rooted in deep-seated envy and bitterness, but that just proves how neurotic Leaf Nation is. I usually laugh when I hear what Gino from Woodbridge has to say on the FAN radio call-in shows, or when I read what he writes on the Sun “Have Your Say” page (yes, I listen to sports radio and occasionally read the Sun). But suddenly I find myself agreeing with him. I don’t think I can find it in my heart to root for Ottawa. It would complicate my already-complicated feelings for the Leafs. Indeed, every time I caught myself cheering for Ottawa against Jersey (only because I hate Jersey more than I do the Sens), I felt like I was cheating on the Buds.
On the other hand, wouldn’t it be so nice for Canada to bring home the cup for the first time in fourteen years? As a hockey fan, I’d not only scream YES!, but also admit that Ottawa would be a very deserving winner. The hockey they’ve played in the last six weeks—hell, since Christmas—has been nothing short of terrific. They’re as dominant a club as I’ve seen in a long time—just look at the teams they beat in the first three rounds—and it wouldn’t at all surprise me if they win. But as much of a hockey fan as I may be, I’m an even bigger Leafs fan. And I’ve already explained what that means. If there were a Leafs Fans Anonymous, I’d have accomplished the first two steps toward joining: 1) admitting that I’m powerless over my addiction, that my life had become unmanageable, and 2) coming to believe that a Power greater than myself could restore me to sanity.
Here’s the stat that kills me: Since the Leafs’ last Stanley Cup appearance in 1967, every team except four expansionists (Atlanta, Columbus, Nashville, and San Jose) and one transplant (Phoenix) has at least been to a Stanley Cup final. (Technically, the Minnesota Wild haven’t made it, but the North Stars did.) Even the two Floridian expansion teams and Carolina (transplanted from Hartford) have made it. Now Ottawa has made it too. In the long run, then, not getting there seems tougher than getting there. Yet Toronto’s shutout streak remains intact, and hearts around Leaf Nation remain broken.
One thing I do love about the Leafs’ missing the playoffs is that I can watch the games objectively, without all the emotional turmoil of worrying that the Buds will lose. So I’ve really enjoyed the last two post-seasons. Last year, the first post-lockout playoffs, the hockey was excellent, and the Cinderella Oilers surprised and charmed a nation, only to fall in Game Seven to the Hurricanes. I rooted for the Oilers, of course, but seeing them lose wasn’t even remotely devastating for me, not like a Leafs loss would be. This year, the hockey hasn’t been quite as exciting—maybe because the refs have called too many chintzy penalties, or because the games have been low scoring—but I’ve still watched every game I can, hoping the Sens wouldn’t make the finals yet fearing they would. Now my fear has come true. So I find myself stuck on a barbwire fence. I honestly can’t cheer for either team. And I can’t cheer for both teams, unless . . . They can split atoms; can they split personalities?
One thing’s for sure: I won’t miss a game.
18.5.07
The Day The Lights Went On
150407/1916—So I’m walking along the street around the corner from my house. I’ve lived in this neighbourhood—Bathurst and 401—for ten years, and I’ve never felt even vaguely threatened or worried about walking the streets at night, much less during daylight. Possibly this feeling of security has to do with my being a big guy, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, I have a shawarma sandwich in my right hand and my cellphone in my left. I’m talking on the phone to a buddy, just walking along, when suddenly I feel a blow to the base of my skull.
“What the hell? ”
(Later my buddy, the one I was talking to on the phone, would say, “We were talking, and then all of a sudden I hear, ‘What the hell?’ and then a big clatter, and then the phone went dead. I thought you’d been hit by a car or something. It kinda freaked me out.”)
My first thought is that I just bumped my head really hard on something, because that’s how it feels. I mean, I’m seeing stars, Roman candles, whatever, that flashing-light experience inside my head, accompanied by a heavy, painful thrum reverberating through my skull. But then I realize you usually bump into things in front of you. My next thought, as I’m turning around to see what the hell’s happening behind me, is that someone recognized me from behind, and came up and slapped me across the head. And I’m about to say, “You know, that would’ve been funny, except it really hurt.”
Having turned around, I see a guy I’ve never seen before: white, mid-twenties, crew cut, wife-beater shirt, track pants. As I jam my phone into my pocket, I say, “What the hell, man? Why’d you just hit me? Who’re you?”
The guy has his fists up and a snarl on his face.
“You motherfucker,” he snarls, “why the fuck’d you do that? I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!”
“Dude,” I say, trying to collect my thoughts, “I don’t even know you. What is it you think I did?”
“You know exactly what you did, motherfucker,” he says, coming at me again.
He starts attacking. His fists fly, but slowly. With my free arm I easily block his punches, as though I know where they’re going. As though I’m a seasoned street-fighter. Then I realize my right hand is beginning to tense up, and I’m getting ready to hit back. Sure, why not? The guy slugged me. Suckerpunched me, for fucksake. And here he is continuing his unexplained attack. He deserves a shot or two to the head. Recompense, right? Eye for an eye.
Now let me make one thing clear: I’m not a violent guy (except when I’m pummelling myself). I’m not a seasoned street-fighter. I haven’t been in a scuffle since high school. But here I am getting ready to fight. I’m confused: What’s this guy’s problem? How have I offended him? I’m surging with adrenaline. I can feel the first awakenings of anger. Yet strangely I don’t feel threatened. As though I know that this guy, with his wild, ineffectual punches, can’t hurt me. That only I can hurt me.
As quickly as the situation is escalating, I still manage to keep my head. That is, I’m able to mentally step back and assess the situation. And I realize that if I don’t feel threatened, I needn’t counterattack. The only thing my punching back will satisfy is my anger. And anger, I have learned, never needs to be satisfied.
Amid the anger and adrenaline, a clear thought rings through my head: I don’t want to hit this guy. I don’t even know him. And maybe most oddly, a second thought, calm and rational: Protect your shawarma.
Immediately I relax my right hand, saving the sandwich from certain squishing. Instead of hitting back, I again appeal to reason.
“What’s your problem, man?” I say, still blocking his ineffectual punches. “Just tell me what I did to you.”
He stops punching and snarls, “You know what you did, motherfucker. I’m gonna kill you.” Now he’s trying to stare me down.
I want to just turn and walk away, but I don’t want another shot in the back of the head. And I don’t want him to think he’s stared me down. So casually I begin backing away. Again I say, “I don’t even know who you are. Why don’t you just tell me what I did.”
“You motherfucker,” he says, following me, “don’t look at me. Don’t even look at me.”
I’m opening up some distance between us, but I still don’t want to turn my back on him. He continues to urge me not to look at him. Then out of nowhere he says, “What, motherfucker, you want to suck my cock?” And he pulls down his track pants and flashes me.
That’s when it clicks for me: this guy is either on something or off something. He’s psychotic. Standing in the middle of the road, with his track pants around his knees, having finally stopped following me, he screams over and over, “Don’t look at me motherfucker!”
Once I feel there’s enough distance between us, I turn my back on him. But I continue to look over my shoulder, keeping an eye on him. Still standing there, he finally pulls up his pants. As I turn onto the street that leads to my street, he begins running in the other direction, away from me.
I walk briskly, frequently looking over my shoulder. I don’t want this guy following me. I don’t want him to know where I live. My hands are shaking, my heart racing as adrenaline slowly ebbs. My anger remains. Although it hasn’t progressed, it has begun to fuel self-doubt. Have I done the right thing by walking away? Or have I fled, tail between my legs? Should I have kicked the shit out of the guy? Cautiously I decide I’ve done the right thing.
My anger whines, “He suckerpunched you!”
I respond, “So?”
“How could you let him get away with that?”
“No real harm done.”
As if to verify my response, I feel the back of my head. No pain. I have a bit of a headache, though. Slightly concerned, I wonder if I’ve been concussed.
My anger won’t let it lie. “An eye for an eye! Be a man! Stand up for yourself!”
I ignore my anger, can feel it begin to fade, its blood slowly draining. As though fighting for life, it tries to goad me. Calls me wimp, wussy, coward. I think: worst case scenario, I have a concussion. Hitting the guy wouldn’t’ve changed that. Hell, had I fought back, I might be more injured. Looking over my shoulder, turning onto my street, I feel a comforting tickle of pride, of accomplishment, of turning away a potentially dangerous enemy.
By the time I arrive home and turn the key in my door’s lock, my anger has faded. I can’t wait to taste my shawarma.
~
180507/2248—Debriefing: I’ve thought about this incident several times since it occurred. In a calm, reflective, unangry state, I’ve reviewed it in many ways—how it played out, how it could’ve played out. Dozens of times I’ve pictured my adversary’s snarling, hate-filled face. I’ve walked past the spot where it happened (always looking over my shoulder), wondered where he came from and where he fled to. I’ve re-experienced my confusion and uncertainty as to his deluded motivations. I’ve stood in an otherwise empty room, replaying the crucial events in my head, ducking and blocking imagined punches. I’ve even punched back at an imagined target, landing that satisfying knockout blow. And each time I revisit the incident, I arrive at the same conclusion: By doing nothing, I did the right thing. I wasn’t hurt (i.e., no concussion). I didn’t hurt anyone or damage anything. I protected my shawarma. And most importantly, I didn’t succumb to the anger which so often in the past has gotten the best of me, and which could have exacerbated the situation in potentially gruesome ways.
I’ve also discussed the incident with several people. Interestingly, and without exception, the only ones who said I should’ve fought back are those familiar with punching walls as a solution to anger management. Which validates, in a bittersweet way, my conclusion that I did the right thing. My small victory that day has since helped me to win other battles with myself. Each act of resistance helps make the next attempt at resistance easier. The war, I well know, is never over.
“What the hell? ”
(Later my buddy, the one I was talking to on the phone, would say, “We were talking, and then all of a sudden I hear, ‘What the hell?’ and then a big clatter, and then the phone went dead. I thought you’d been hit by a car or something. It kinda freaked me out.”)
My first thought is that I just bumped my head really hard on something, because that’s how it feels. I mean, I’m seeing stars, Roman candles, whatever, that flashing-light experience inside my head, accompanied by a heavy, painful thrum reverberating through my skull. But then I realize you usually bump into things in front of you. My next thought, as I’m turning around to see what the hell’s happening behind me, is that someone recognized me from behind, and came up and slapped me across the head. And I’m about to say, “You know, that would’ve been funny, except it really hurt.”
Having turned around, I see a guy I’ve never seen before: white, mid-twenties, crew cut, wife-beater shirt, track pants. As I jam my phone into my pocket, I say, “What the hell, man? Why’d you just hit me? Who’re you?”
The guy has his fists up and a snarl on his face.
“You motherfucker,” he snarls, “why the fuck’d you do that? I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!”
“Dude,” I say, trying to collect my thoughts, “I don’t even know you. What is it you think I did?”
“You know exactly what you did, motherfucker,” he says, coming at me again.
He starts attacking. His fists fly, but slowly. With my free arm I easily block his punches, as though I know where they’re going. As though I’m a seasoned street-fighter. Then I realize my right hand is beginning to tense up, and I’m getting ready to hit back. Sure, why not? The guy slugged me. Suckerpunched me, for fucksake. And here he is continuing his unexplained attack. He deserves a shot or two to the head. Recompense, right? Eye for an eye.
Now let me make one thing clear: I’m not a violent guy (except when I’m pummelling myself). I’m not a seasoned street-fighter. I haven’t been in a scuffle since high school. But here I am getting ready to fight. I’m confused: What’s this guy’s problem? How have I offended him? I’m surging with adrenaline. I can feel the first awakenings of anger. Yet strangely I don’t feel threatened. As though I know that this guy, with his wild, ineffectual punches, can’t hurt me. That only I can hurt me.
As quickly as the situation is escalating, I still manage to keep my head. That is, I’m able to mentally step back and assess the situation. And I realize that if I don’t feel threatened, I needn’t counterattack. The only thing my punching back will satisfy is my anger. And anger, I have learned, never needs to be satisfied.
Amid the anger and adrenaline, a clear thought rings through my head: I don’t want to hit this guy. I don’t even know him. And maybe most oddly, a second thought, calm and rational: Protect your shawarma.
Immediately I relax my right hand, saving the sandwich from certain squishing. Instead of hitting back, I again appeal to reason.
“What’s your problem, man?” I say, still blocking his ineffectual punches. “Just tell me what I did to you.”
He stops punching and snarls, “You know what you did, motherfucker. I’m gonna kill you.” Now he’s trying to stare me down.
I want to just turn and walk away, but I don’t want another shot in the back of the head. And I don’t want him to think he’s stared me down. So casually I begin backing away. Again I say, “I don’t even know who you are. Why don’t you just tell me what I did.”
“You motherfucker,” he says, following me, “don’t look at me. Don’t even look at me.”
I’m opening up some distance between us, but I still don’t want to turn my back on him. He continues to urge me not to look at him. Then out of nowhere he says, “What, motherfucker, you want to suck my cock?” And he pulls down his track pants and flashes me.
That’s when it clicks for me: this guy is either on something or off something. He’s psychotic. Standing in the middle of the road, with his track pants around his knees, having finally stopped following me, he screams over and over, “Don’t look at me motherfucker!”
Once I feel there’s enough distance between us, I turn my back on him. But I continue to look over my shoulder, keeping an eye on him. Still standing there, he finally pulls up his pants. As I turn onto the street that leads to my street, he begins running in the other direction, away from me.
I walk briskly, frequently looking over my shoulder. I don’t want this guy following me. I don’t want him to know where I live. My hands are shaking, my heart racing as adrenaline slowly ebbs. My anger remains. Although it hasn’t progressed, it has begun to fuel self-doubt. Have I done the right thing by walking away? Or have I fled, tail between my legs? Should I have kicked the shit out of the guy? Cautiously I decide I’ve done the right thing.
My anger whines, “He suckerpunched you!”
I respond, “So?”
“How could you let him get away with that?”
“No real harm done.”
As if to verify my response, I feel the back of my head. No pain. I have a bit of a headache, though. Slightly concerned, I wonder if I’ve been concussed.
My anger won’t let it lie. “An eye for an eye! Be a man! Stand up for yourself!”
I ignore my anger, can feel it begin to fade, its blood slowly draining. As though fighting for life, it tries to goad me. Calls me wimp, wussy, coward. I think: worst case scenario, I have a concussion. Hitting the guy wouldn’t’ve changed that. Hell, had I fought back, I might be more injured. Looking over my shoulder, turning onto my street, I feel a comforting tickle of pride, of accomplishment, of turning away a potentially dangerous enemy.
By the time I arrive home and turn the key in my door’s lock, my anger has faded. I can’t wait to taste my shawarma.
~
180507/2248—Debriefing: I’ve thought about this incident several times since it occurred. In a calm, reflective, unangry state, I’ve reviewed it in many ways—how it played out, how it could’ve played out. Dozens of times I’ve pictured my adversary’s snarling, hate-filled face. I’ve walked past the spot where it happened (always looking over my shoulder), wondered where he came from and where he fled to. I’ve re-experienced my confusion and uncertainty as to his deluded motivations. I’ve stood in an otherwise empty room, replaying the crucial events in my head, ducking and blocking imagined punches. I’ve even punched back at an imagined target, landing that satisfying knockout blow. And each time I revisit the incident, I arrive at the same conclusion: By doing nothing, I did the right thing. I wasn’t hurt (i.e., no concussion). I didn’t hurt anyone or damage anything. I protected my shawarma. And most importantly, I didn’t succumb to the anger which so often in the past has gotten the best of me, and which could have exacerbated the situation in potentially gruesome ways.
I’ve also discussed the incident with several people. Interestingly, and without exception, the only ones who said I should’ve fought back are those familiar with punching walls as a solution to anger management. Which validates, in a bittersweet way, my conclusion that I did the right thing. My small victory that day has since helped me to win other battles with myself. Each act of resistance helps make the next attempt at resistance easier. The war, I well know, is never over.
29.4.07
I'm Hurting Only Myself
270407/0243—I have anger issues. Actually, I have lots of issues—hell, who doesn’t?—but anger is the one that potentially might topple me. So, in a last-ditch effort at self-preservation, I’ve made a pact with myself to work on the problem. It seems to be working. But the thing with issues is that they can bare their fangs when you least expect, as I’ve found numerous times. Like, every time I’ve ever punched a wall or a chair or myself, I can honestly say I didn’t expect to do so. The destructive behaviour isn’t premeditated. It just . . . happens. Impatience slowly boils to frustration, and suddenly the urge to violently act out overwhelms me like water surging over a levee. As the comedian says, “What’s up with that?”
When I first started thinking in depth about my anger issues, I figured I was angry because of unresolved emotional problems, because of some thing (or things) I had experienced that I needed to remember or understand. Now, though, I’m beginning to realize that whether I experienced crappy stuff or not, my fits of anger have to do with how I respond to the world. It can be a crappy place, the world, and if you’ve learned to nurture anger, you’re going to let it dictate how you interpret the world.
040804/0247—Epic moments. Those moments that last so long, those moments so expansive they quiver towards eternity. Anger for me is like being trapped in one of those moments, a pocket of air bound by a thin skin of soap or spittle. As long as that skin don’t break . . .
Other woman said, “What about a condom?” I said, “You’ll be my condom, bitch. Get on my cock.” VD stands for . . . Valentine’s Day.
Fifteen percent of all laughter is forced.
~
My body is the setting, my emotions the characters. The primary conflict wages between Love and Ambivalence. Like a chess match. Ambivalence usually makes the second move, yet doesn’t play aggressively, so things tend to get tedious. Love knows well how to attack, but Ambivalence seemingly without effort evades any real confrontation, content simply to prolong the match.
Love’s true opposite is not Hate, but Ambivalence. Love and Hate are connected at the hip by virtue of their relentlessness. If Love (or Hate) is feeling everything toward some target, Ambivalence is feeling nothing toward it. Glancing briefly, discarding immediately, without consideration. Or perhaps to avoid a threat of rejection. I don't know what frightens me more—these extreme emotions, or the absence of emotion.
Maroon four-door sedan edging away from gas pumps toward
My mood is the first casualty. A scowl feels so right. Something of considerable weight. Something to wield as one might wield a visibly holstered gun. The bitch is littering, words flashing reddish hot through deepest cells of my limbic system. A similar flashing reddish hot stirs through my limbs. I consider running and grabbing the litter, catching up with the car—which hasn’t yet reached Finch—and knocking on the window.
“Yes?” she’ll say, putting down the window.
“You dropped this,” I say, shoving litter into car, staring the chick in the eye. “Don’t do it again, otherwise I’ll hunt you down and split your face open.”
Anger plays itself out. Anger must occasionally do so in order to avoid buildup. Or rather, buildup plays out in moments of psychic fracture, bad vibes like black fumes wafting from porous surface area of my body, dark menacing energy encasing me in a thin reactive Hell. Ideally, such a scene plays out inside my head rather than my actually performing any such thing. It’s not, one might say, pretty, that scene.
These moments when I want to kick something or punch something or bite my tongue until I draw blood. I still experience these flashing reddish hot moments. When impatience and indignation intersect. When I’m waiting for the bus and it doesn’t come for, like, half an hour. With every second the bus doesn’t come, impatience slowly builds, filling me with menace, weighing me down yet lifting me off the ground, raising me towards an apex of singular rage. And then four buses arrive at once and I think, how fucking stupid is that?
Indignation seeps into the fold and ignites a conflagration of Anger.
For a minute or twenty minutes or an hour—that epic moment—giant bricks of RAGE shooting through my head, cracking my skull, dispersing the urge to remain angry. Bilious green-yellow ectoplasm pulsing through deepest channels of my limbic system, arranging signals which enervate my arms with mindless need to lash out. Grab something, squeeze until it releases its liquid. Throttle, close hand around victim’s throat, suffocating.
270407/0313—I’m sorry, where are my manners? My name is Jody McCutcheon. I’m a nobody. At least, to the world at large I am, as are approximately ninety-nine point nine percent of us. To my friends, family, and co-workers, I’m Jody, or Jode, or Jeush, or Jody the Roadie, or Captain, or Dr McCutcheon’s son, or that stoner dude. I’m a thirty-five year old white, over-educated underachiever with an upper-middle class upbringing. My father’s a doctor, my mother a retired nurse. Among my uncles and aunts are a doctor, a physicist, an engineer, a teacher, and a jeweller. Obviously I have good genes. I live in a country—
And that makes me angry.
But whereas most people take anger out on external things, like walls and material goods and other people, I take my anger out on myself. The stupidity and self-destructiveness of such behaviour makes me angrier. And thus fuels a vicious cycle of masochistic violence. I’ve cut myself (accidentally and otherwise). I’ve given myself black eyes. I’ve sprained both wrists. I’ve broken my hand. I’ve ended up in casts at least three times in the last four years. I’ve embarrassed myself beyond words. And if I’m not careful, one day I might “accidentally” kill myself. If I can (without warning) punch a metal pole hard enough to displace my fourth metacarpal bone, who’s to say I can’t (without warning) grab a sharpened stick within reach and plunge it into my neck? I guess it all comes down to how mad at myself I might get.
So I began to fear myself, my seemingly uncontrollable anger, to the point where I sought outside help. A second opinion, if you will. I went to see a specialist in anger management. And after several sessions (at $200 an hour), I think I’ve learned a few things about myself and anger management. (At that price, I’d better have learned something.) But that’s not to say I’m out of the woods. Like I said, these issues can bare their fangs when you least expect. The occasional bout of anger is unavoidable. That is, everyone gets angry once in a while. But anger needn’t lead to destruction.
My earliest misconception was the presumption that everyone punches walls. I learned this behaviour at an early age mainly because it wasn’t discouraged. I’d get angry, I’d punch a hole in the wall, and my dad wouldn’t condemn the behaviour, since he himself was familiar with punching walls. He’d just say, “Well, that was stupid of you. Better fix it.” So I learned that punching walls was stupid, but not necessarily wrong. And of course I also learned how to fix holes in walls.
Apparently, punching walls isn’t normal, but rather a sign of uncontrolled anger. So the walls of the house I grew up in, pockmarked with patched-up holes, told an ominous story in a language I wouldn’t understand for many years. Now, though, I’m learning to understand it. Hopefully it’s not too late.
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