Photo by Krzysztof Kowalik on Unsplash
Anger is a troubling emotion. And it’s confusing when you hear psychotherapists and psychologists mistakenly describe anger as a secondary emotion – meaning, we feel something else first (usually fear) and then go to anger instead of feeling that first (primary) emotion. There might be some truth to that, but it’s not the whole truth. Anger is a primary emotion, a first response to injustice and threats on our basic right to individual and communal well-being. Anger is a healthy emotion. It’s only unhealthy when it becomes pathological rage and the only thing you let yourself feel, or if you harm yourself, or anyone else, because you’re angry. (And that definition of unhealthy doesn’t include self-defense when threatened with physical harm or death.)
It’s my belief and experience that when people define anger as a secondary emotion it’s because they’ve had bad experiences with anger in their own lives (just like everyone else), and so they don’t like dealing with anger. It’s easier to explain anger away than accept it as normal and necessary.
Let me tell you a story from my own life that demonstrates two pillars of anger: Destructive (negative) and Productive (positive).
When I was 6 years old, an incident happened in my kindergarten class that really impacted me. Without going into too much detail, I can tell you that I made a mistake and didn’t follow the directions of the teacher. I was a strict rule follower in my elementary years, so my mistake wasn’t coming from disobedience or rebellion. I just didn’t understand the directions she gave, and I was too afraid of my teacher to ask for clarification. My teacher overreacted to my mistake. She was so furious that she bent over, got directly in my face, and screamed at me. Screaming is not an exaggeration – she fully embodied her rage with magenta-skinned, spittle-infested, louder than loud, nasty words in my face.
I was shocked. Everything seemed to stand still, and I could see the faces of my classmates – wide eyes staring, mouths open, cheeks trembling with fear. I just went to my chair and put my head down on the table, crying silently. I never came up for air. I don’t remember how long my typical kindergarten day lasted, but I do remember that day took forever. When a friend tapped me on the shoulder to tell me it was snack time, and I just shook my head “no” with my face still buried in salty tears and snot flooding the melamine finish of the classroom table. I was destroyed. The bell rang at the end of the day, I walked home, and I told my parents my teacher had hit me.
Now, to be fair to my 6-year-old self, I really did feel like she hit me. Her screaming words shattered my sense of safety, and I felt hit. I didn’t have language at 6 years old to explain the difference between how I felt and the straight-up facts. My mom was ready to storm the school, and my dad was upset, too, but also trying to understand. They kept talking and realized something obviously happened, but my teacher smacking me didn’t make sense. Eventually, they were able to get the facts of what happened out of my traumatized storytelling. They let me stay home from school for a week while they talked to the principal. My brother brought my kindergarten worksheets home, and I finished them in the kitchen while munching on the comfort of my mom-made grilled cheese and tomato soup.
The day came when I had to return to school, and I felt a lot of things – fear, embarrassment, shame, sadness. I reluctantly re-entered the gaggle of parents and neighborhood kids walking the familiar route to school, and I dreaded every step.
My mom and I walked hand-in-hand into my classroom. My teacher was expecting me, and she hurried over with a huge smile on her face. As she greeted my mother with exuberant hellos, my body felt a sense of betrayal. Kind of like here we go, my mom’s just going to ‘adult-talk’ with my teacher while they ignore me, my teacher is going to get away with everything, my hurt will be forgotten, and my teacher will yell at me again when my mom leaves.
But here’s the amazing part.
Steely-eyed, my mom said to her, “You yelled at my daughter and scared her to death. That is not okay.”
My teacher deflected, told my mom that I was the one who overreacted, and basically said I remembered it all wrong. But my mom didn’t skip a beat. She spoke from her gut with an authority and confidence I’d never experienced before. I was in awe of my mom. She told my teacher, in so many words, “You scared her so badly that she thought you hit her. You should be ashamed of scaring a little girl into staying home from school. She didn’t want to come here because of what you did. Don’t ever do that again. I’m paying attention, and I won’t stop watching out for her.”
My teacher caved. She apologized to me profusely, and I honestly didn’t know what to do. But I felt so much better. My mom kissed me good-bye, and I bounced over to my chair with a huge smile. My friends were excited to see me, and I was so happy to be back. My fear literally melted away.
Except for that one time my friend puked SpaghettiOs all over our classroom table, I don’t remember anything else from my kindergarten year.
My mom made mistakes when I was growing up, as all mothers do, but she got it right when she confronted my teacher. I didn’t know it, but she had reduced the heat on her boiling anger to a slow simmer while she simultaneously followed steps to help me. Talking to the principal, letting me stay home for a week, coming with me to re-enter my classroom, and holding my hand while talking to my teacher – without attacking her – was planned out well. None of it was spontaneous or destructive. In that experience, I got built back up.
My mom did not let go of her anger about what happened to me. She felt her anger and responded in a healthy way. And that’s one reason why anger matters. If we just try to get rid of our anger, or not feel it, we aren’t paying attention to the message our anger holds.
In part 2 of Why Anger Matters coming out tomorrow, I’ll describe different patterns of anger and what to do with pathological anger in yourself and others.
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