The Beauty of Rage

I spent most of yesterday afternoon seething in anger, pounding my steering wheel in rage and biting my lip until my whole mouth ached.

Why I was angry doesn't matter. Once I calmed down enough to think clearly, I reminded myself that it didn't matter why. I was angry, and that that was okay, and that as long as I didn't decide to plow into the wrong direction of traffic because of my anger, there was nothing wrong with letting that fire pound through me in my emotion. 

It's sad how often I have to remind myself that anger, in and of itself, isn't a sin. 

It's also sad how often I have to remind myself that this isn't my fault, my aversion to the natural inclination of anger. 

I can hear your inner questions now, dying with curiosity to know why I was angry. Is that just because I'm female? I know that sounds trite, but really think about it. If I were a man writing this, and I wrote about the subject of anger, how would you react to his declaration? Would it be any different?

That's what I want to talk about today. 

It took nearly a decade into my adult life for me to realize how sick I was making myself, physically, emotionally, sick, by suppressing my anger and hiding behind a stone-face neutral expression, or the fake smile that almost always accompanied nausea because of the absolute lie inherent in the facade. 

My sibling had a ball with that growing up. His anger reached heights that involved throwing things, kicking things, punching things, tearing apart rooms, and eventually physical violence that lasted much longer than it should have. But he was never punished for it, at least in any way that actually stemmed the tide of his never-ending rage. If I reacted at all to such rage, more often than not with anger of my own, he would lose it even more. My reacting to his rage out of defense or in anger at the exaggeration of his emotion resulted in even worse because I wasn't supposed to get angry. It wasn't right for me to get angry, although he could be the epitome of anger at the drop of a hat. 

The hypocrisy and double standard of this only grew worse the older I got. It wasn't until I went to college that I allowed myself the luxury of feeling angry when something happened that merited such a response, and it was the most intoxicating, and terrifying, freedom. Often, after my anger had ebbed, I would cry myself into a tizzy because I had no idea how to handle feeling anger or the resulting emotions left behind, whether it be the calm that followed righteous anger or the guilt that followed unjust anger. 

Over and over again in prayer, I would be reminded that anger itself is a not a sin; righteous anger itself was even shown through Christ, in the overturning of the tables in His Father's temple. This wasn't just a passable incident; He tore that place apart because of how the sacredness of His Father's House was being desecrated and violated. 

This gave me some measure of peace, but I was still left in a quandry for years because I was still punished for getting justifiably angry, and my brother was not. 

It can't have been just because I was female, was it?

Or because I was young?

Apparently, if you're an older woman, being perpetually angry and taking that anger out on younger generations of your sex is part of the territory. But if you're young, being judged for your hair, your makeup, your virginity or lack thereof, your sexuality, your relationship status, your age, on and on and on, anger isn't a justifiable reaction. You're supposed to be a good little girl, keep quiet, and let the anger fester in other places until it starts to make you sick. After all, anger is ugly, and we can't have any ugly girls, now can we?

I like to picture, in those moments of guilt over feeling just anger at being treated poorly, Christ walking into the abandoned temple, the corded whip still in His hand, coming to the center of the temple's yard, raising His eyes to the sky above Him and falling to His knees, tears from the hurt over the violation of His sacred home leeching through them. This comforts me in my own rage. When there is a violation, whether insignificant or dire, anger is a just response. It is a good response. You should be angry. You should be hurt. You should want to tear out of your way whatever is causing it. 

So, I'm gonna be angry. If He was, then I will be, too. Maybe if more people were angrier about the horrifically terrible things happening in the world right now, more would be willing to do something about them instead of bottling up the anger and guilt and shame from turning a blind eye. If that makes me an ugly woman, then so be it. Better ugly on the outside than on the inside.