Apparently, while in the stupor of my last depression, I was angry. It was hard to believe because all I wanted to do was sleep and wander around the house. But both my therapist and my nurse practitioner told me I was angry and would not get well until I got rid of the anger. I did not know how to do this. In my family we did not get angry. We seethed. We cut people out of our lives, avoided them and refused to make eye contact. We kept our anger inside. Good girls don’t get angry.
So, when I learned that anger turned inward was fueling my depression, I did not know what to do. My therapist handed me a wiffle bat and wanted me to wiffle a stuffed animal in her office. A wiffle bat? I am not a wiffle bat kind of girl, I told her. I went home and used a real bat on a pillow. It felt good. I realized that I was angry - real angry - and that pounding pillows was not going to do it for me. I needed to beat the *#%! out of something. I needed to break something, hear the power of my anger and feel it.
I opened the Yellow Pages and found a junk yard. I grabbed a Sharpie, my bat, steel toed boots and a Rolling Stones CD. It was raining when I got to the junk yard. I walked up to the counter and explained my predicament. The man agreed and pointed to the corner. “You want a bat?”
“No,” I explained, “I have my own.” A nice metal bat.
The man walked me to a smashed up truck. “This is the only one you can hit,” he said. “You gonna scream?”
“I don’t know,” I said. He walked away. I surveyed the truck, walked around to the hood and took out my Sharpie. I wrote the names of all the people I believed had wronged me. Then I went at it. I have no idea how long I was there. Over and over and over I raised up that bat and slammed it down. I broke windows, smashed headlights, kicked side panels and pounded on that hood until I was shaking and breathless. Then I went at it some more.
When it was over I walked back to the office and asked the man if he wanted me to clean up my mess. He said “No.” I drove home listening to The Rolling Stones, full blast. Then I collapsed. I do not recommend this kind of anger-management. I am a very athletic woman but for days my body ached. Rage and adrenalin.
My therapist was not pleased. I should not have done this alone, she said. Pent up rage is dangerous and uncontrollable. We can end up hurting ourselves if we go at it alone, she said. She taught me how to deal with my anger in healthy ways. Pause when agitated. Prevent an argument from getting out of hand with “We need to agree to disagree.” Put my face in a pillow and yell. Fine a road with little traffic, roll up the windows and scream. And for God sake, use a wiffle bat next time.
Anger is difficult for women. We are taught that good girls do not get into arguments and do not raise their voices. We do not rough house. We do not have sports like football and hockey that allow us to hit and tackle. The best we can do is smack a tennis ball with all our might. We are so unaccustomed to anger and bury it so deep that we do not recognize it in ourselves. We turn our anger inward. Our anger fuels our depression.
I know the power of my anger. I know it can kill me. I know what it feels like and what to do with it. I put on my bathing suit, do a cannon ball into the pool and scream my lungs out underwater. Then I catch some rays.
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