Recently, I became aware of how little I express my anger.
As in, I’m not sure I’ve ever expressed anger.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve felt anger.
I’ve just misnamed it.
I’ve called it frustration, annoyance, hurt feelings, even selfishness.
However, the truth is, sometimes, things just make you angry.
For example; sometimes you are asked a question and then the ask-er doesn’t wait for a response.
Sometimes, customers at the cafe’ where you work decide to be the most difficult, treat you like you’re not a human, and then they don’t tip.
Sometimes, you interact with men on the street who treat you as if you don’t have a college degree, haven’t run a business, haven’t seen more of the world and of human emotion then they could comprehend, rather, they just want to know if the carpet matches the drapes or if redheads really do have a higher sex drive.
Sometimes, you see injustice and inequality on a daily basis.
Sometimes, you see people treat homeless people like they don’t matter or exist.
Sometimes, things make you angry.
I’ve been working to accept all parts of my emotions.
No longer desiring to be a smiling robot of a woman who makes everyone else comfortable at the expense of her own awakening, I am trying to embrace the fact that I’m full of emotions.
Some that I’ve attached the word ‘negative’ to and some that I’ve attached the word ‘positive ‘to.
Some emotions I’m proud to exhibit and others I hide.
I’m at a point in my life where I’d like to feel comfortable expressing and feeling both.
Well, kind of.
I certainly feel more complete and more authentic.
But, I also find myself upset by things that I would have never even thought about before.
I can feel myself hugging my pride and clinging to my self-respect.
In a way that’s very exciting for me, but, at the same time inconveniencing.
I’ve spent so much of my life preaching optimism and holding onto my positive outlook like a life raft.
I do think life and happiness are easier with an optimist’s approach to the world.
However, feeling complete in my emotions has been so very freeing for me.
Certainly, I could allow a man to approach me at the bar, interrupt the book I’m reading so that he can tell me he thinks a misogynist of the same era is a much better writer.
I could smile and nod and allow him to feel great about himself.
But, damn if it doesn’t feel good to tell him that writer, while talented, has done as much good for the world as the invention of high fructose corn syrup.
And guess what, he’s going to ask for your number anyway, because he spent the entire time that you were speaking staring at your breasts and being proud of himself for referencing the one author that he’s heard of from that era, even though he’s never even read his writing.
And that will make you angry.