"Anger is cruel and fury overwhelming"
-Psalm 27:4
"Do not be quickly provoked in your spirit, for anger resides in the lap of fools."
-Ecclesiastes 7:9
The title of this blog is "The Daily Stumbler". I have been upfront with the fact that I mess up. I don't get it right all the time (or even most of the time). I typically write posts that attempt to advise others... that answer questions. Today, I bring before you an issue that I haven't found answer for yet. You see, I have a bad temper. I let it get the best of me too often. I recently had a "bad day" and took it out on my husband. Then, as the cycle usually goes, I felt guilty for my hot-headedness and hated myself for letting my anger take over yet again. In an attempt to get to the root of it all, I did some creative journaling. Today, I do not have advice or answers. Today I just expose a dark side of myself and readily admit I am a sinner and I desperately need God to keep me on track and hold me accountable. This is one of my Stumbles.
"Confessions"
I can feel my rage-ridden heart clawing against the inside of my ribcage with acidic ferocity. It is like an untamable wild creature that possesses me, given even the smallest opportunity. I clench my jaw until the very roots of my teeth hurt and the pain crawls its way up into my temples and down the sinews of my neck.
I close my eyes and allowed myself to smolder. I don’t understand it. Anger completely takes over and sweeps me away too often. My rational mind knows that the triggers that set me off are often petty and meaningless, but that doesn’t ever matter in the heat of the moment. All that matters is that my chest is searing with fury and the only way to alleviate it was to tear myself open and let the fire-acid freeflow—without care or concern about who gets swept away in the deluge.
My husband is at once my favored to most regretted victim. I can bridle my frustration all day long while I am at work. I can even put on a pleasant demeanor and a charming smile in my dealings with strangers and acquaintances. However, the threshold of my own home always seems to flip a switch. I relax my grip on the reins of my rage, and it never fails in tearing itself away from my grip and rampaging towards the one I love most.
I love him, but my anger tells me I hate him. It snarls and snaps. It wants to hurt. To cut and slash. To make sure he’s suffering as much as I am. My anger takes a sadistic pleasure when a particularly hurtful remark flies true and strikes his heart. When it makes him bleed. His eyes betray his pain. I may not be able to take him down with fists and feet, but I can bring him to his knees with my words and contemptuous glares. My anger gives me power. It intoxicates me. It numbs the conscience and possesses my words and actions. I vacate myself and let it take over.
I watch myself transform into a creature of rage. I watch myself react like a wounded animal. I screech and snarl and lunge. All the while, inside I am weeping. In a small dark corner of myself, I am curled up sobbing… crying out, “Love me. Hold me. Understand me.”
And he does.
My poor, foolish husband does. He isn’t conscious of his understanding, but he disarms the animal with his calm words. He subdues the creature with a caress, and then an assertive hug. He holds tight as the creature snarls and fights. My anger hates him. It hates him for this. It hates him for making me weak. It hates him for taking away my power.
I am pulled from my dark corner and I am found on the outside sobbing. My anger retreats to that dark corner. It is not gone. It never goes far. It merely paces, glaring outwards; waiting for its next opportunity to strike.
I want to rid myself of this animal. And yet I don’t. I keep it chained up within myself like a ferocious guard dog. It was meant to protect me, but at some point I lost control of it. Too often it strains against its tether until the chain snaps and it’s let free to attack again.
I cry. I sob. My tears extinguish the flames, but the burns ache deep within me. Pain surges with every beat of my adrenaline-charged heart. Guilt and shame climb onto my shoulders and I am brought to my knees. My anger mocks me for being so weak. It turns its hatred inward. I gave in too soon. How dare I let this man defuse me! How foolish I was to allow him to disarm me! He can’t be trusted. He can’t give you what you need. He’ll fail you again. Just wait and see.
Yet this man holds on and reassures me. His words are like salve. I am soothed. Despite myself, I allow a smile—perhaps even a giggle—to defeat me. My anger scoffs within me and dismisses me with disgust. I take no notice. This man, my own, valiantly saved me from the creature that possessed me. The beast with his wife’s face. The beast that injured him and cut him and continued to maul and attack when he was down. Surely this man, my husband, is a hero!
And yet, the image of shining armor—of valiance, of bravery, of love and kindness—is short lived. This man is no knight. He is no king. This man is imperfect and wrestles with his own shameful monsters. And when this man inevitably fails—and I am wounded—my steadfast fury is there to defend me. My anger grins and grips my heart once again. My anger is faithful when those I love aren’t. This creature of rage takes over when I can’t. I retreat back into that dark corner once again, crying out to be loved, while my fury stands firm on the frontlines, readying itself for the attack once again. My anger flexes its muscles within my own. I am possessed and steeled. I leave the weak, sobbing child within myself and prepare to strike out once again.
