anger - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Anger, pain, sadness - so intertwined that perhaps their names aught to be tweaked to reflect the true origins of those emotions.
This kitchen table has seen every emotion, from the sweet silent happiness of family times, when the only sound is contented enjoyment, to the rage that bursts out in the hard times. From its rich cream surface the wood beneath peaks through, as if to remind us that we are the same, that in those tough times we can learn how to show our beauty and true strength instead of the anger that damages us all.
Ted really lived is anger, almost as cartoon characters do, so lost in that moment and the torment his brain was in. I'd see it first in his eyes, then a tension of his muscles, an inability to think clearly soon followed. The rational Ted was offline and the primitive Ted who reverted to his old habits was in the room. Suddenly his liberal opinions were gone, his ability for nuance and emotional generosity were gone too. His fists would stay firmly by his sides, yet his words did more damage than they ever could. But we agreed a while back to use a dog training technique when he got mad, one to remind him that anger is born of pain and sadness, that he needed to calm himself, find himself, ignite his feelings of love and protectiveness in that moment of anger. So, when we saw those flickers of fire we blew him a kiss, and instead of saying, "God damn it," he learned to say, "God love me," through that gravelly rage, and I'm telling you, when he managed it, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.
For the most part, addictions are to stuff that's bad for you; that's how I was with anger. When things calmed down, when everything was nice, that's when I'd find fault in someone or something. I was the the emotional volcano, convinced it was the fault of others, or circumstance.I never wanted to be that way; it's the trait I most disrespect in others... maybe that explains a lot. Don't they say that most folks are mean not because they struggle to like you, but because they struggle to like themselves? Ted said, "Respond, don't react, breathe, take yourself out of the situation, be a fly on the wall for a second, let love back in." It's not like that was magic. I still blew hot, but it became better over time, less often. I started to see the real things that caused it, not the things I believed I was angry about. It was the petty frustrations of life, the things that flicked my anxiety switches, that or the things that made me sad. I'd felt entitled to better treatment from others, consideration and respect. I still think I'm worthy of those things, but these days I let it go, trust that the right people will come into my world. It took a while, but the addiction is over. Now it's the reverse, and in any anger situation I'm the cool one, the help instead of being part of the problem.
My anger would come like an impossible build up steam, burning me on the way out, burning the one on the receiving end. I can tell you honestly, every time I ever blew I reckoned the other person deserved it. There was the explosion and then the mental framework afterwards to avoid guilt, avoid owning the shame that was mine. That's how I stayed so foolish for so long, so immature, refusing to learn over and over - sacrificing who I was supposed to be to keep a pristine ego. But that pain, that realisation, when I let it in, was more school than any classroom ever was. If I kept on being angry, how could I love anyone right? How could I begin to love myself?
That was the breaking point of my patience. At that moment, I was blinded by a five-course serving of rage that tasted bitter, yet surprisingly satisfying. I reached out. I went to punch him in the face. When my fist came in contact he fell to the ground wailing in pain, as I tried to shake the aching after taste, upon the taste buds of my hand. Much like coffee, its bitterness drew me in to take another sip knowing I would be more awake than minutes before. I tackled him and held him down so he could not fight back. I seriously doubt he could’ve anyway as my fists continued to hit his face. I felt guilty, but I couldn’t stop. So many years of subtle bullying that sunk deep into my mind and added a divine spice that completed the vexed dish I was serving. I knew I should’ve put an end to it, apologize before I made it worse, but I just didn't have it in me to stop.
Winston rested his head in his hands. What a night. Either someone screaming or car horns honking. He just needed an unbroken night and he'd be a new boy. The teacher was droning on about atoms, nucleus this, electron that, then a question directed right at him. He raised his red laced eyeballs from the graffiti on the desk to look at the bespectacled man in the tweedy suit. “Tut tut, no studying, Winston?” Study? Where? In their family's single motel room there was no place quiet and he wasn't allowed out after dark anyway. His brothers and sisters screamed, threw tantrums and the television droned on, looney tunes mostly. His fingers curled tightly around his pencil, he could to see the man's neck snapping in his mind and it felt good. He could feel his fist smashing into his nose, splattering red blood on the dirty walls. What an improvement that would be. But instead he just replied as if his jaw were wired shut.
I held it back as long as I could, then I let go. They encircled me, each of the five taller than me. At first, they just called me names, but then they pushed "the button." The leader poked me in the chest. I grabbed that hand and bent it back to his chin, while punching him in the stomach at the same time. One grabbed my left arm and I whirled to land one solidly on his jaw, right below his eye. He went down. Two of the other three held my arms while another punk hit me in the stomach twice. I kicked him solidly in the midsection, which knocked the breathe out of him. He bent over but didn't fall. When I kicked the guy in the gut, I pushed the others back and and we all went down. I hit the pavement getting up. One was on all fours, and I kicked at his chin and landed a hard one on his head. The other was up and ran at me to tackle me. I stiff-armed him and pushed him to the ground. While they were regaining their balances, I slipped away. I dreaded seeing them tomorrow.
It is the vexing of the soul
A swelling of the veins waiting to explode
It’s like the rushing of blood to the head
Saying things, you would rather left unsaid
I am beside myself
Tossing and frowning, I lost my head
I need to stop and find me again
a calming of the soul and tranquility within
and cease this war that rages in
let it not be said
that I unleashed the monster under my bed
anger, please stay out of my head
Control, Calm and Purpose
That’s my request instead
Written by: Charmaine Wallace
Lara didn't even know she was angry until Tom did it again. The used tissue arced from his hand as if in slow motion, coming to rest on her new cream couch. The bark of her voice even surprised her. “Get your filthy snot rags of the couch!” He looked at her through wide red-rimmed eyes, his mouth slightly open and a glisten of snot above his cracked lips. She knew she should reign it in, apologize before she made it worse, but she just didn't have it in her to stop. Her words crashed out unchecked, unaltered. “It's just lazy, OK? Lazy, disgusting and vile. Get your damn bogey rags off my couch!” Her second voice was urging her to stop, but this was an explosion in progress, no reverse gear, no dampeners. Lara's every word was clipped, punching into the air. She jabbed the air with a pointed finger at each utterance, her eyes narrowed and set hard...“Tom, you are a mess. What the hell are you doing here? Wrecking my place? Giving me your germs? Out! Go home!” Tom stood, swaying ...
The clock struck eight pm and my face falls faster than vomit. Eleven hours of smiling and I want to kill something cute. Holidays- Dad ducks out, Mom gets stressed and my sister pulls some stupid stunt to grab all the attention. Different year, same BS. I've been pushing electronics at spoilt teens all day. I wanted to ram their stupid gadgets right up their noses, or even better, down their throats. Whatever their parents buy them they always want to upgrade, giving some whiny bull crap-“that's what all my friends have!” In school and church Christmas is all about God. Bull. It's a frenzy of consumerism and I see it every day. “Screw those kids without enough to eat, we earned our money.” Well tonight I'll be stopping at the food bank on my way home, my last pay-cheque was swallowed by mother's dental bill and the washing machine going on the blink. Ho ho ho. I feel so festive.
Joel had been weaving through crowds all day, holiday music telling him how joyous he was to be parting with the savings it had taken him months to accrue. Now who was getting it? Some fat CEO? He told his parents he wanted to cancel Christmas; his mom had just laughed, asking if he was having a bad day. Now here he was being jollied along to spend his cash, not on skiing, the only hobby that kept him sane, but on things the advertisers told them they wanted. And what was he going to get? Fuck knows. But whatever it was he didn't want it. Now he was ten people back in a line-up to buy his sister some overpriced make-up and an anti-wrinkle cream that would make no difference to his mother's face. Can't stop time. The line up moved on but he didn't. The gap grew. There was a loud huff from a girl behind. “Are you gonna move up?” Joel turned, dropped the goods in her basket and left. It was his money. He was giving love for Christmas and if that wasn't good enough then fuck'em.
I'm right. I know I am. I'm right and they won't listen. I could explain all damn day and they still won't get it. My face has become rigid, jaw clamped tight, teeth grinding. It's time to get out of here before I do something they'll make me regret. In standing my chair flies backwards, falling. They're glaring at me like I did it on purpose. In their heads this is a victory already. In their warped logic my anger means they're right. Just because they kept their cool it doesn't prove the veracity of their argument. They're just cooly wrong. I need to turn away now, turn before I snap at their wide judgemental stares. “There she goes again,” I can hear them thinking it. On the way out I slam the door hard; I hope their stupid brains rattle in their stupid skulls. With each stride I just know I'm the subject of discussion, not the reason I lost it, but the fact that I lost it. And so it goes on, them feeling superior and me never altering the status quo no matter how hard I try.
Then Bob swung around with a jerk and recognized Tully Ross. There was a momentary flare of anger in Bob’s face.
There is a scream from deep within that forces its way from my mouth, it is as if my terrified soul has unleashed a demon. All I feel is anger, all I feel is that I don't want to be friends with anyone at all because then I don't have to trust anyone, it'll be safer, easier to choose not to stay. And I know I'm hiding a truth from myself, of how much this is really to do with sadness and the scars that just won't heal. Yet these fists clench and my teeth lock up once the sound is out. I'm just gonna have to walk away for a while, see this "elephant" from a few miles away, figure it out.