Anger

I’m angry, and not just some simple conniption or distemper. The fibers winding down to my core are braided with fury. The irascible roots of my existence are exasperated beyond the point of vexation, into unknown realms of ire, outrage and enmity. I’m mad, bro.

But why? That’s the first question anyone would ask. That’s the first question I asked myself, and for a long time I tried to give myself an answer that fit: my parent’s died (fuck cancer), my dream died (fuck the USAF), my family died (fuck baby mommas), my faith died (fuck Disney…I mean, for real, fuck-deez-nuts-Disney for giving faithless children these unrealistic expectations about life, but I digress…), my country died (fuck Donald Trump), my career died (fuck The Man), my relationship(s) died (fuck me).

And for a long time, I would try to bury my anger beneath the appeasing dirt of any or all of the aforementioned answers… because that’s what you do in polite society. You hide your anger. You appease it secretly and in acceptable ways that don’t draw too much attention such as the overindulgence of pleasures, the soft cutting of skin in discreet locations (no, I’ve never done that), or the cathartic ostentation of your choosing relevant to your personality type (i.e. Facebook rants, serial dating, being a Karen, etc).

I hate my job. Nothing novel there. Lots of people do. And if you’re thinking right now, “Well, why don’t you do something else?” Then I am mentally walking over to you and bitch-slapping you in the face. By the way, a bitch-slap is ALWAYS with the backhand. If you use your palm, you’re just slapping a bitch, not bitch-slapping. Denote the difference, but again, I digress… I’m not going to get into the semantics of my job-hate because, surprisingly, I’m not angry about it. Whilst it grates at my personality daily, it has also considerably broadened my perspective on the human condition. And my friends, the condition. is. poor.

‘Tis unfortunate for my rocky pursuit of happiness, yet fortuitous to my wit that I should fall into my present position as I’m embarking on those middle-age years when wisdom first dawns. I’ve always been a tolerant person but not without my prejudices. I may disprove of many lifestyle choices, but I tolerate an individual’s behavior so long as they stay in their lane. I’ve even casually conversed with people of questionable beliefs, temporarily withholding judgment, and often found them to be quite intriguing. Hell, my own brother practices a plethora of behaviors that occupy my prejudices but I love him all the same. Would I accept him as integral to my life were he not my brother? Doubtful, but that is the difference between tolerance and acceptance. You tolerate behavior, but you accept people. It’s easy to confuse tolerance with acceptance because if we correlate them as the same then we don’t have to own our prejudices. We treat prejudice as a bad thing. It’s not. It’s only a word. What matters is your association with that word. Prejudice is merely a way of distinguishing between something you don’t want to be, and whom you think you are. I am prejudice against meth-heads because I don’t want to be a meth-head. It doesn’t mean I hate all meth-heads. In truth, I only hate one meth-head and that’s because he hurt someone I love and judged me prematurely, not because he is a meth-head.

I am angry because I see prejudice twisted out of its neutral form into fear and loathing; then running rampantly, unchecked, unchallenged, and unacknowledged–in the world, in people, in a person, and most infuriatingly, in myself. I used to ask why. Now I ask, why not? I should be angry because I am not the things that I don’t want to be, yet I am and have been treated as such by “polite society”. The answers that used to fuel my rage have settled into components of my twisted prejudice. I can’t even look back on my life without acrimony or umbrage. How does one weave hope for a bright future from a cantankerous past? We are ruled by our prejudices, each and every one of us. If you’re thinking right now, “Well, I’m not.” Please see my backhand. We plan and live our lives according to all the things that we don’t want to feel or be, and then go hard in the opposite direction. I am angry because, when I reflect on my experiences, I feel powerless and unseen in a shallow society that abhors acceptance, embraces ignorance, calls it tolerance, merges all lanes, and blindly drives in reverse towards the pursuit of individual happiness.

When I was a kid, I always struggled with defining what I wanted to be or do in life. All I knew in my heart was that I wanted to make a difference, a positive and significant difference, in the world if I could, or in one life if I could not. That was the passion that fueled everything for me: my writing, my relationships, my goals. Now, that limitless passion has turned into anger. Unmitigated indignation. Discomforting antagonism. Infinite annoyance. Stifling displeasure… I’m mad, bro.