Anger

Anger can surprise. 

My anger can surprise me, and it can surprise those around me. 

Knowing my mother is dying makes me feel angry. Sometimes it makes me feel sad. But sometimes it makes me feel angry. 

I know death is the one thing we can all expect in life, but it still makes me angry. 

I have decided to try to release some anger, anger I have pushed down so long ago I don't even know what it is about.

I thought I would write about anger, but I stare at the screen and feel speechless. 

I check in with my breath, and find I am holding it, not allowing it out of my lungs lest it carry a wave of anger out into the world where it will harm those I love.

I tried drawing myself as angry, but was told to try again and make anger look less crazy.

But anger feels crazy. 

It feels out of control.

It feels weak.

It feels dangerous.

I asked, "How can I release anger in a safe way?" 

Here's what was shared with me by someone I trust.

• Anger is messy.
• Anger is released best through movement through time and space.
• Anger feels like pushing something away.
• Anger feels like a release not a containing.
• When I feel angry, and I do not have the energy to move my body, I grab my pastels and some paper and I scribble. I try not to narrate my anger, I do not put words to it, I do not try to make it into a picture, I just scribble, page after page, until the anger has been expressed.

I asked a friend to have an anger session with me. The plan? 

Sit at the same table. (I was afraid to do this alone.)

We each scribble, scribble for as long as we needed to. 

No talking.

No discussing.

No drawing.

Only scribbling.

Visceral noises accepted, but don't hurt yourself, no vocal fold abuse.

We began.

What colour is anger? I thought it would look like bile, or barf.

I didn't like my first scribble, so I scribbled over it. Then I scribbled over that.

The pastel marker felt so heavy on the paper. So much energy to move it, to scribble.

No talking I said to myself in an inside the head voice. No bossing me it replied to itself.

I wanted to rip, tear, and  shred my paper, but I  tried to instead  keep scribbling. 

More words came to my mind.

I tried to let them go, let the sentences stop unfinished, let them float away in on a storm cloud of rage.

Anger was exhausting.

I tried to let anger be messy, uncontained, unarticulated, just expressed with colour.

Soon I had covered the entire page with colour.

Anger was not all one colour. 

My anger needed more pushing away.

I put down the pastels, and began to drag the colours with my fingers, my knuckles, my elbow.

Anger felt powerful. 

Anger felt like control.

Anger couldn't contain tears.

Unexpectedly, anger was done.

Done? 

Done.

I was expecting to need a nap, but when clean up was done, I felt energized and social.

We sat down on the couches and knitted side by side, my friend and I.

Clack, clack, clack when my needles. I felt contented. I felt connected.

Anger can surprise.