I used to shove you deep into my core and smile pretty through my teeth.
I learned how to hold that hot tension in my jaw.
Like I was patiently posing for a picture to be taken.
I was never good at anger I suppose, but that is how a girl is raised.
She is rewarded with sweetness and compliance and punished for tears or ugliness.
I did not begin to express my anger until I was well into my twenties—long enough to recognize and release the fiery inner essence of my soul.
I discovered more than I ever wanted to know about anger from my relationships with men.
Boys are encouraged to use anger as a prime emotion. Little boys are not loved or accepted when they show sadness.
It is viewed as weakness.
So, as the softer gender, women are often on the receiving end.
For we are a safe place to emote upon.
“Boys will be boys,” they say.
When I was little, a certain boy would beat me up at school.
“He just has a crush on her,” they’d say to my mother while smiling safely behind a grey metallic teacher’s desk.
It all worked out in the end. I learned how to run faster from my bully on the playground.
As a little girl, I was unable to protect myself.
I was raised to be sweet, bubbly, and kind. To see the best in others.
But that changed once I swirled into a woman. My inner earth grew warm and my fertile land blazed.
Trial by trial, I learned how to spit fire and find my growl. I let it take control of me and experienced the heat of churning molten madness within my body, like Pele, the goddess of the volcano.
I noticed how anger held so much power. So much domination. All-encompassing and destruction of all in its path.
So compelling and alluring.
Anger drops us right into our wild and unharnessed reptilian brain.
What purpose does it serve?
The energy of anger surrounds the heart, acting in self-preservation.
Anger is the perfect escape from pain.
Anger is fear on fire.
Anger is fear.
So, today when my blood began to boil in the act of never-ending, relentless multitasking moments, I recognized you.
I sat with my anger for a minute and visualized what I might have looked like.
Eyes focused, jaw tightly clenched, and a smooth look of complacency.
I drew in a nice long, hot breath like that of a deep inhalation of a cigarette.
And with an exhale, I let go of the intensity.
This moment was not me, but wearing me like a heavy red velvet hooded cloak.
As I gently sat with my anger, just like smoke, it lifted up and vanished with a fierce wind.
I mentally patted myself on the back with confident validation and said,
“It’s okay to feel pissed.”
That inner fire, our inner animal, wants to be free and wild, unbound and unfettered.