When your anger scares you, it’s time to get a little perspective.
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TASK #7: Tempered Steel
No man can think clearly when his fists are clenched. George Jean Nathan
Anger. Pure, unadulterated male anger. It’s one of the traits of men that I can’t defend, nor totally comprehend. It’s not that I’m immune. On the contrary–I have a terrible temper. I have lost my shit at home, on the road, at work, on the basketball court, at my friend’s dinner table, at my son’s soccer games, even at church.
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I’m the kind of guy that just explodes–then just as fast as it arrives, the anger dissipates like a summer rainstorm.
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I’m the kind of guy that just explodes–then just as fast as it arrives, the anger dissipates like a summer rainstorm.
I have flipped people off on the freeway, baited people at dinner parties, chased the dog, pounded conference room tables, fought in jealous rages. I screamed at the McDonald’s stooge who gave me a Fish sandwich instead of a Big Mac–and forgot the fries. Why the hell did it matter? Really?
I’ve scared people, even myself.
I’ve scared the people that I love.
Isn’t that sad?
Road rage was my specialty. One day a guy cut me off at an intersection. I went eye-bugging crazy. I followed him for a few streets, then jumped out of my car and knocked on his window. He got out and punched me in the face. I ended up flat on the street.
He drove away.
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I had to stop it. I had to find some control. I took the time to listen to myself–and i came to one incommutable truth…
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I had to stop it. I had to find some control. I took the time to listen to myself–and i came to one incommutable truth: if I didn’t get control of myself I was going to make a mistake that would haunt me the rest of my life. I would hurt someone. I would go to jail, or I would lose someone I couldn’t afford to lose.
I had to get some perspective.
TASK:
Starting this moment, write down every angry impulse you have this week. EVERY ONE. No matter how small or trivia. And give yourself a word, or a phrase, to say when you start to get hot. My word was STUPID.
Now, when the bee-atch in the black Charger cuts me off on the freeway I don’t speed up to stare at him, I say STUPID and breathe and turn up my music. George Mother–F’in Thorogood.
If you have any comments, feel free to e-mail me at [email protected]
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Photo by Crosa
