Last Night I Assaulted Someone: Musings on Anger

Last night I went to a concert. I am not normally one to attend gigs and places where there is a strong chance of a mosh pit, but somehow I ended up on the fringes of a sprawling mass of sweaty, drunk men (and a few women) throwing their full body weight against anything near them. At first it was amusing (particularly since the song they were 'moshing' to was essentially bluegrass), then it was annoying, and finally it became a little scary. My husband, a self-proclaimed 'punk,' occasionally threw an arm in to keep the crowd at bay and muttered about his frustration that the moshers weren't respecting 'the code,' but as always he kept his composure and held his temper. I, on the other hand, became overwhelmed with the urge to strike. The more I got pushed, the more I considered various ways of punching, kicking or headbutting the people around me. And I meant it, I was close to action. Until finally, after a random man came flying in my direction, I had visions of a stampede crushing me and everyone behind me. I had flashes of newspaper headlines: Hundreds of Students killed in Freak Stampede at BRMC Concert. And then, without thought, I pushed. I pushed the people in front of me with a strength I was completely unaware I possessed. It was totally primal, banal. And it felt fucking brilliant! No one was hurt. No one even noticed. But I was left haunted by my actions and the thoughts leading up to them. It was far less about the pushing and more about a question I find myself grappling with on a regular basis: why am I so angry?

My anger is not a new or even recent phenomenon. Nor, I am sorry to say, is it uncommon. I could list at least five times in the last five days where something has so incensed me that I have found it difficult to breathe normally or restrain my temper. Today and yesterday alone I have picked three fights with my husband - one of my favourite activities. It's not that I am generally pugnacious or that I enjoy fighting with him, it's just that it is such a relief to actually have something tangible direct my anger towards. I am at ease when I finally have an explanation for the rage that I carry around with me each day, even if it is only a temporary (or false) one. Now at this point you are perhaps thinking two things: 1. this woman needs anger management or to be removed from the streets; 2. what is that poor bastard she's married to thinking? But rest assured, I don't run around pushing and shouting willy-nilly and no one has ever come to harm as a result of my bad temper. My husband usually gets a groveling apology within 10-15 minutes of the beginning of the argument, and he is not always necessarily innocent either. In fact while many people who know me are aware that I sometimes have a bad temper, I think the majority of people would be surprised to know the extent of my anger. Generally the only person who suffers as a result of my rage is me. But I am beginning to think I have had all I can handle.

I can assure you, I have tried repeatedly to curb my anger. I read books on inner peace and Buddhism. I even believed what I had read. I have tried increasing exercise and decreasing stress. I have counted to ten, gone to a happy place, even whistled and sang to myself. I have had crying fits in the car, punched pillows, and shouted at the top of my lungs in an empty room. I have tried prayer, meditation, dancing and yoga. All of these methods had their moments, but in the end I am still left with this little ball of rage in the pit of my stomach that just won't leave me. There is only one way I can see that I haven't tried - finding out where the anger ball came from. I have my theories, but none have been tested.