Diary Of a Mad Fat Woman

Allow me to address my use of the F word.  For those of you who cringe at the word, "Fat," and whose gut reaction is to object and come up with another descriptor, I understand. And I appreciate the intent, but not saying it doesn't make it not true. Am I the fattest person in creation? No. But I carry a lot of extra weight, and some parts of me are bearing more of the burden than others. Some parts are relatively fine. Other parts. two, to be exact, are ginormous, and seem to remain that way regardless of what the rest of my body is doing. I think we all know the parts of which I speak. And that's fine. I may never be able to comfortably wear blouses with buttons, or turn sideways without looking like I am holding my breath, but I have grown rather fond of Lucy and Ethel and have learned to think of them like my own set of cat's whiskers. They enter the room before I do and scope out the surroundings to check for danger. Beware, those who would seek to crouch around corners and do harm to my person, for you just might lose an eye.

Having established that I am, in fact, aware of my proportions, let's move on to the issue at hand: Anger. In this age of crunchy memes and internet gurus who name themselves after vegetables, we have begun to attach shame to anger and those who are dealing with it, as if it is an affliction and not a natural human response. And it's pissing me off.

On the subject of anger, there is no shortage of quotable quotes. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind." Hmmm. Okay, first, I am about to argue with Ralph Waldo Emerson, and I realize how high-fallootin' that may seem and I don't care. Secondly, this sounds terrific on the surface, if you're having a great day and your world is full of puppies and rainbows and that load of laundry you just folded yielded no mateless socks. The first time I read this quote I was having such a morning, and I agreed wholeheartedly and thought it to be simply brilliant. A few weeks later, however, it resurfaced on a day that was made entirely of  mateless socks and my take on it was different.

The issue I have with Emerson's assertion is located just about squarely in the middle of it, in his use of the words, "give up." To give something up isn't a passive activity. In order to give up a thing, you have to actively hand it over, or put it down, or leave it behind and walk away. Those are all conscious choices. Ask anyone who has given up smoking if it, "just happened," or anyone who has foregone sleep to establish an exercise regimen if giving up that sleep was without effort. Giving something up requires rumination, decision, and execution. As someone whose mind is usually operating at the speed of Caffeinated Meerkat, why would I willingly give up a precious moment's peace?

If someone steals your car, you're going to be angry. If someone stabs you in the back at work, you're going to be angry. If someone bullies your child, you're going to be angry. There are events in your life which will result in you being overcome with a very sudden and acute feeling of understandable and justifiable anger. You will not take the time to consider your peace of mind. You will feel flushed, your heart will race, and you may express yourself through the use of creative verbage, questioning the parentage of your tormentor. And you will likely remain this way for some time, because that is how feelings work. That is how they have to work, because feelings must be processed.  You cannot just squelch and suppress, and stifle your anger. Unprocessed anger is dangerous and it makes one sick. You have to acknowledge it. You have to sit with it. You have to feel it until you can't stand it for one more second, and only when you're sick to death of it will you be ready to move on and leave it behind.

As established earlier, I'm a big enough person (ha!) to admit that mine is not the only way of looking at things. And I do acknowledge that Emerson was talking about, "remaining," angry and not being angry. There is a big difference between being mad and staying that way. If we're being literal, Emerson also said, "every minute," we remain angry, etc. Well, again, respectfully, I disagree. You have to process. How long that takes is up to the individual, and who am I to say that if you stayed angry about something for six months that only took me two weeks to deal with, you did something wrong?

But we do have to decide to move on at some point, and not because some famous dead guy said so. We have to move on for our own health. And guess what? It may not be a one-and-done deal. Because we don't live in a vacuum. And the universe has a way of...well, sometimes being shitty. If you're looking for a good example of this, I would highly recommend watching comedian Mike Birbiglia's special, "My Girlfriend's Boyfriend." Oof...rough stuff. But he talks about a truly awful time in his life when a completely unfair thing happened to him and it turned into the gift that just kept on giving. It's not necessarily funny, but it's real and raw and completely relatable. It's also already a matter of public record, which means he can speak pretty freely, without worrying about offending anyone.

What to do, though, when you've worked so hard to put something behind you, and the universe catches up to you, and says, "Ma'am, I think you dropped this," and dumps it in your lap again?  This is the tangle in which I found myself ensnared. A years old, long-dealt-with (I thought) pain had resurfaced.  And I'll be honest, I wasn't sure I was going to make it out of this one.

At first, I didn't even recognize the fact that I was angry. Which sounds impossible, I realize, but it's true. I manage depression on a daily basis, that I recognize. I am largely fueled by anxiety (Hello, old friend!). And I certainly thought I was self aware enough to know when I was mad. But it turns out that my usual level of anger is just mild irritation, compared to the absolute fury I found myself teeming with when the universe, ever helpful, decided to return my discarded baggage. And it was frightening, and at times, emotionally crippling. I just wanted it to stop, yet I wasn't quite ready to let it go, either. I was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep, and I felt like I was screaming but no one could hear me. This wasn't the flatness and fatigue that I'm used to trudging through, nor the worry and nausea that like to hang around and remind me that what I'm doing isn't good enough. This was fiery, and maddening, and coming from somewhere deep and dark, and it hit me like a tidal wave and I couldn't breathe. And finally, I realized, this...was...ANGER. This was a feeling. A fully developed, pregnant emotion, with layers and dimensions, and it hurt, and it was terrifying, and it meant I WAS ALIVE.

And then the dam broke.

I cried almost nonstop for three days. I stood in the shower and screamed things at the top of my lungs that would make Howard Stern, say, "Ok, enough, already." I hit things, I threw things, and finally, I didn't have it in me anymore, and I had to stop. I had to decide what to do, and my options were limited and clear. I would like to say that I didn't consider the destructive path. I did. For a bit.

My choice was to keep moving, but forward this time. Enough flailing and spinning. One step and then another, and then one more. I put down the baggage, aware that the universe may try to catch up to me and return it, but I discarded it before, I can do it again, and the more I keep moving forward, the more distance I put between us. It will not be easy.

I was reluctant to share my experience, but ultimately felt compelled. There is always a concern that people will misinterpret my reasons for sharing, or be put off by my vulnerability. But I have found that there are always others who are walking or have walked similar paths, and I usually hear from them and we are able to encourage and learn from each other.

I am confused by my experience.  I don't want to feel that way again, but going through it made me realize I was still alive. I haven't been engaged in my life in a very long time. The anger was a catalyst. I have direction now.

Anger is not inherently bad. It simply is. It cannot be wiped under the rug by a pretty picture of a sunset. It cannot be erased by reminding someone of another's misfortune. This is not a competition. It must be acknowledged, and respected, and truly, deeply felt. I am both terrified of it, and awed by its power.

I needed it.