Losing my cool

If I could be any character in a play, it would be Jo March from Little Women.   Feisty, opinionated, tom-boy, not enjoying the dress-up activities that come with femininity, a closet writer . . . characteristics I know well.  There is a beautiful scene where Jo loses her temper (for the hundredth time) and Marmie comes to her side and talks about her own struggles with controlling her temper.  We never see the fighter in Marmie, but with her words she assures Jo she understands all too well her temperament. 

I had a Jo and Marmie moment with my oldest today.  Ironically, her middle name is Josephine naming her after Jo March.  She lost her temper and threw her brother’s hair gel across the room leaving a trail of goop long and wide.  I saw the mess, grabbed paper towels, and firmly directed her toward the destructive path that was her responsibility to clean.  This then triggered a meltdown in the midst of the morning hustle of getting ready for school and work.  She ran to her closet and sobbed on the floor.  I took a deep breath and ushered her out of the closet and held tightly her raging body.  I told her I understood this anger, understood the passion that she feels, but now it is time to calm down and breathe.  Within minutes the tantrum was over (as compared to the hours it used to take).  As we got home from school, I revisited this morning’s episode and talked about how we all “lose our cool” from time to time.  It will happen.  It will happen again.  But what is important is taking responsibility for our actions – owning our anger and apologizing for our destructive reaction.   And again, I reiterated my own personal understanding of this anger.  My lovely said, “But you don’t lose your cool; you don’t understand.”  This surprised me.  Am I that good at controlling my emotions that she really has not seen me lose my cool?  Surely, she has seen this.  My husband laughed and assured her that yes, indeed, I lose my cool.  She was not buying it.

And maybe, sadly, she has never seen me lose my cool.  If we had a time machine, she would see a young girl just like her with destructive rage.  So much emotion, so much passion, such a strong sense of justice and rightness that I was ready to fight anyone and anything.  At some point in my life, that outward rage turned inward and became a quiet storm brewing below the surface.  My energy shifted and became more about controlling my emotions, containing my rage, silencing my terrors, and smothering my shames rather than fighting the monsters and injustices I felt around me. 

I gave up fighting because I saw it was not doing any good.  The monsters still came no matter how loud I yelled; no matter how many times I knocked them down, they stood right back up.  I hit a point where the rage felt so much stronger than I could handle – I needed someone bigger than my rage, someone not afraid of it.  I needed someone to hold me and help me feel safe.  I did not find that savior and so I stopped looking.  I stopped hoping.  I bottled up that rage, turned it inward and swore I would never lose my shit again.

Now, here I am at midlife realizing that all those years of playing the strong, controlled, stoic one did not make the monsters go away.  I was not able to smother out the rage, terror, and shame like I so hoped.  As it has begun seeping out now, I find I am losing my cool in a different way.  My temper tantrums are not stomping and screaming like they were as a child, but I am still doing the same act of pushing back.  My oldest is right, she probably has not seen me lose my shit in the sense that she does.  My adult tantrums look more like avoiding that which I know is good for me – reading, writing, prayer, meditation.  My tantrums are about staying busy and "productive" while ignoring the longings of my wounded soul.  My adult tantrums are about giving the parts of me that need to mourn the silent treatment (and perhaps the middle finger.)

I am committed to stopping the cycle of these adult tantrums for me, my marriage, friendships, my children, and my relationship with God.  My husband asked how long this was going to take.  I don’t know the answer to that.  I have been on this journey a long time and seem to take a few steps forward then a few back.  But it is slow, forward progress.  It is about giving permission to mourn.  Permission to feel the rage, terror, and shame.  But mostly, it is learning to be compassionate and merciful with myself . . . to be patient and loving with myself.  It is undoing years of self-condemnation.

Last Friday I saw Les Miserable for the fourth time.  It remains one of my favorites.  In the past, I have related with Cosette, the mistreated orphan longing to be rescued and taken to the Castle in the Clouds.  It was that secret hope for a savior.  This time seeing it, I kept singing to myself, “and I am Javert.”  Javert, the officer to follows the rules and works hard.  Javert that cannot accept mercy from another.  Javert who committed suicide rather than accept the grace offered him.  I saw the foolishness of his thinking, but at the same time felt deep compassion and empathy for this character.  If I do enough good, live enough right, THEN I will earn compassion and grace.  How quickly I choose to ignore that the very nature of grace and mercy is that it cannot be earned.  They are freely given, but they must also be received.