13b- Anger and Exercise

I do not like to be angry, mostly because I have a nasty temper. I would like to think that I have tamed my temper but it's probably more accurate to say that I have refined it. I'm not sure if that makes it better or worse.

Not many things make me angry. Being mean to kids (as opposed to tough love), being mean to old people (seriously- they're old. bad form), and injustice underscored by a substantial one sided balance of power. That's it. I find most human behavior curious as opposed to anger rousing. I arrogantly like to think that people who yell at other drivers lack anything substantial to be angry about. Road rage is a luxury for those with a light load of personal problems.

I hate angry, my anger, because I have learned to use it to inflict the most harm. I hate it because after inflicting said harm I never feel regretful. Only justified and drained. I have learned that it is not the physical pain that hurts people the most. It's the words. And my tongue, when provoked, is deadly.

Here is the evolution of my temper-

1) Observe something unfair that I can't make sense of.

2) Feel my blood start to boil. I literally feel my body get hot. I feel my blood pump faster and as a result the temperature rises.

3) Acknowledge to myself that I'm feeling anger.

4) Try to talk myself down by reasoning at I don't have all the pieces.

5) Convince myself to ask more questions.

6) Receive unsatisfactory answers.

7) Analyze, quickly, the most efficient method to right the wrong while inflicting the most harm to the person enacting the injustice.

8) Zone in, focus, engage.

At this point my brain goes to hyper drive. I am not conscience of the passage of time. I'm am marginally aware of the what is happening in my peripheral. I don't hear anything. I am über  focused. With the tenacity of a feral dog protecting its cubs, I go for it. And I win. I always win.  Even if I loose a battle or two I persist until I get the W.  It's a sickness.

It leaves me emotionally exhausted. As I come down off of my angry high I become aware of smell, color, and sound. I analyze the events to see if I could have done something different. Decide that I would not and go for a run. Literally. I have to burn the rest of the angry off.

Circular point- I recognize how much exercise has saved me. When angry, when sad, when hurting- I punish my body until all I can do is pass out. When I got divorced, the original, I would jump rope every night after the kids were asleep until I couldn't stand. When Georgia died I ran until I couldn't. Then I ran some more. Some people drink, some do drugs, some sleep- I work out. Thank God for natural endorphins. And blogging, absolutely thank God for blogging. Writing heals.

Return to point- what am grappling with is if my anger is a good thing or a bad thing. On one hand I fight for those who can't. I'm generally justified. I win. On the other hand, why can't I be passive? Why can't I let it roll off? The Amy in me finds that both laughable and unnatural. I mean does anyone ever really let it roll off? Doubtful. Probably they just internalize and have strokes. I'm sure I'll never find out.

I am grateful that I have been taught to fight well. I never yell. I never raise my voice, as a matter of fact the angrier I am the quieter I get. I am a lady. What I will do is go above your head and eviscerate you. Mostly to your face. 

It's the ultimate humiliation because in the end the other person, not wanting to loose something essential (usually a job or status), has to bow down. That's where the pain is found; the breaking of a spirit, feeding you the shards, and watching you choke on your own blood as the jagged edges of your pride serrate your esophagus.  Leaving you to emotionally asphyxiate. I find perverse satisfaction in it and all I ever think is, "Don't be mean to old people/kids."

That's what I don't get either. Why do people think that they can act however they want with no ramifications? I witnessed that today.  A presumption of no accountability for meanness. Unfortunately for her and I my sense of justice flared as did my anger.   I left a scorched path in my wake. I feel no regret.

In the meantime it's been 56 minutes and 7 miles at the gym. My body is done.

My anger is gone.

-Dewb

12b- Flavor

I wish I could get the right combination of flavors.  Or at the very least know the perfect combination of flavor that my tongue prefers.  I think that’s the worst part of the thing, knowing that a dish is missing something but not being able to put your finger on exactly what.

I was at lunch the other day with a friend, ingesting a particularly tasty dish while simultaneously being driven further down my path of crazy because I couldn’t figure out a spice that I was tasting.  I knew the flavor.  In between bites it would tease me- playing hide and seek with my tongue.

I feel like that when I am cooking some days.  I cook by smell and feel, not by recipe. Yes feel, as in- this feels right with that. That feels off.

I feel like that about my life some days.  I know the combination that I want. I can see it in my mind. I can feel and taste it but when I mix everything together something elusive, that is just beyond my scope of cognitive identification, is missing. I used to attribute that to a person, a relationship.  As I have began to mature I recognize that a ≠ b.

Then the question becomes am I really missing something?  Or do I need to just let the flavors of my life marinate for a bit? If I do will the complimentary ingredients mesh to create the exact perfect life dish? 

The great thing about cooking is that a smart chef also knows how to use the theory of balance to neutralize a flavor that’s gotten out of hand.  Too acidic?  Add sugar. Too thin? Beat in a fine measure of flour.  Not salty enough?  The right cheese will do.  So, of course, would salt but that’s too obvious (and no umami).

As is usual I am left with many more questions than answers.  One door always opens two.  Way leads to way... I’m sure there is a lesson in this.  Yet today, as with the flavors, I find it elusive.

And that’s that.

-Dewb

11b- Gifts from the Ex

I have to thank the exes. I am not broken. I do not feel inadequate nor unloveable... I have also started in the middle of the story.

I recently spent time with a long time acquaintance that promises to become a good friend. We share a complex history and have found ourselves at similar points in our lives. Kids getting older. Life changes and a kind of reckoning with middle age (dependent on your projected death date). We have also recently emerged from marriages. What surprised me was how vastly differently we had emerged from the event. And thus the story begins.

I do not think of myself as having failed in marriage. This is probably part of some internal flaw on my part given that I have been married and divorced twice. Perhaps it's my eternal optimism and love of humanity. Perhaps it's my belief that if you love someone you will always love them and that love is never a waste of time. Perhaps I just have a soft spot for my failings. 

This is not to say that my divorces didn't hurt, that I wasn't disappointed, or spend a lot of time meditating on how to be a better human so as to bring my best self to the next relationship. It's not to say that it didn't feel like a shattered happily ever after. It did. But I was not left bereft nor questioning my worth. And I have to thank my exes for that.

I believe in love. I believe in marriage. I believe in happily ever after. My first marriage happened too soon almost as a statement that I would not be dictated to by an upbringing that I had deemed confining. We were 19 and 20, from different worlds and headed down different paths. I regretted neither the marriage nor the divorce. I didn't question the original exes love for me, only his maturity and fidelity. In a world full of half truths and outright lies, loyalty and fidelity are a non-negotiable in my world. We parted amicably (I like to think anyway given that he wanted to stay married and I didn't). My children's half sister was born less than 6 months later. But I wasn't angry. Sex is what 22 year old men, especially ones with quasi- celebrity status, do. We stayed good friends for a really long time.

The most recent ex struggled with an illness called addiction and depression. He hit a really rough patch and lost the battle towards the downward spiral. He felt and I agreed or I felt and he agreed that it wasn't fair to drag the family along for the ride. When he was being honest, he could admit that he liked his addictions. And when I was being honest, I could admit that there was a part of him that was defined by his addiction that was interesting. We hugged it out and he left. Again, we parted on amazing terms, he maintained my car and I ran his errands until he moved from the state. Even with that we visited him and his new girlfriend in Arizona and they invited us back anytime. How can I be mad at that? 

I understood clearly at the departure of both relationships that it wasn't me. They were who they were and I was who I was. We loved each other enough to not kill that thing inside that made us unique.  It wasn't like they hated me and wanted to be rid of me, the opposite in fact. Wilde said that each man kills the thing he loves. Typically because you love the life out of it, you suffocate it. I believe that true love frees, not binds. What kind of love comes with shackles? I feel like they loved me enough to not kill my soul. They loved me enough to set me free.

I realized after talking to my friend that that isn't generally the case. Most love ends in tragedy. And lots and lots of pain. I feel like mine ended in hope. Hope because since I wasn't broken and I don't feel inadequate I spring back ready to love again and again some more whenever I feel like it. That's a wonderful gift. And again, maybe it's my rose colored glasses but pink glasses are a fashion statement that work for me.

So to the exes, original and recent, thank you.

-Dewb