When Anger Bleeds Through

Tapping into rage as a reclamation of self

I’m angry. Not Jesus-flipping-tables-at-temple angry. More of a gentle, humming undercurrent of “what the shit is this?!”

I’m actually quite docile at the moment, despite the plethora of things to shake my fists about (or our fists, collectively).

But I’ve been feeling anger coursing through my body over the past several months, and it’s been…jarring.

It’s also made me realize that I’ve spent the better part of my life trying not to be angry.

In childhood and as a teenager, it was about staying small. Sinking into the background. Not making waves. Not drawing the ire of authority figures. Like the time I nearly melted into my chair after our Brownies leader threw a pencil at me in a moment of her own anger and frustration; some of the girls thought she was showing favoritism to her daughter, also in our troop.

In college, it was more of the same, though I also had the emotional lubrication of alcohol at every turn. It’s easy to shirk feelings when vodka is flowing from the windows to the walls, until, well, you know the rest. Much was dulled.

Then, there was early adulthood—existence in the real world. Here, I think I was angry quite a bit: angry that I wasn’t progressing fast enough in my career; angry that I hadn’t found a partner; angry that I wasn’t a New York Times Bestselling Author; angry that the 50-year old account manager didn’t see the validity of “tweeting” as a “strategy.” So there was more numbing that, unfortunately, became less effective over time.

Then, I got sober. And for a variety of reasons, being angry fell out of vogue. The emphasis was on feeling your feelings, but making sure that you understood your part in those negative feelings first and foremost. Truthfully, there’s not a lot of room for anger there. Feel anger at others and you’re “taking their inventory;” feel anger at yourself and you’re playing victim or basking in “terminal uniqueness.”

I’ll probably get under some people’s skin just writing about this, but here’s the kicker—and the entire point of this post: I don’t care. I’m done de-prioritizing my feelings and propping everyone else up above myself.

But Ashley, that sounds awfully selfish.

Nay, here’s what’s selfish:

Never giving people who have wronged you the opportunity to apologize and make things right.

Pride in reverse that says you’re not worth being treated well—with respect and dignity and love and care.

Hiding yourself—or parts of yourself—from the world because you think it might be too much.

I’m not talking about putting others last and disregarding their feelings in favor of what I feel like at any given moment or whim. Actually, it’s the opposite. My ability to respect others is directly underpinned by my ability to respect myself. To speak up for myself when I’ve been wronged. To stand up for myself when bullies come out to play. To allow myself to feel when shit is just getting under my skin.

This is what it is to be human, and I feel like I’m discovering it for the first time at 40.

[Sidebar: some of you are probably wondering when this midlife crisis will be over, and I’ve got news: strap in.

I’ve been having a midlife crisis since I was 13; no reason to think it’ll subside now. Still, hope abounds. We’ve moved out of existential territory and into goth/emo crises. Hooray.]

So, I’m letting myself be angry. And I mean really feel anger, in a somatic sense—not just analyze it. While I agree with the common sense that says it’s never good to act in the moment of anger, if I’m still feeling like action is required after the peak has ebbed, I do what needs to be done, whether it’s having a difficult conversation, removing myself from a situation, or just going for a damn run.

I’m done shielding myself from my own emotions for the comfort of others (a lie, by the way, but prevalent, nonetheless).

I’m embracing the rage and digging my heels in. And for the first time, maybe ever, I feel like I’m finally on my own side.

—Ashley