I clomp down the stairs to the lower level of the gym. I’m angry and on the verge of tears. Mark, my trainer, is wrapping the session before mine. He looks up and sees that I’m not my usual smiling self. With a tiny nod, he lets me know he sees the state I’m in.
It’s 2017, and I’m burning with rage and overwhelmed by the tsunami of sadness and depression I feel blowing in. January 2017, one week after the inauguration of the Monster-of-My-Worst-Nightmares-or-My-Wildest-Dreams-I’m-Not-Sure-Which. He’s already wreaking havoc. The first week, I watched him sign pompous proclamations and absurd executive orders with his Sharpie-fueled psychotic scrawl that looked like a lie detector test gone mad. He scrawled and scrawled and scrawled some more, a triumphant smile on his smug-ugly mug. He signed orders that would hasten people’s deaths. He signed a Muslim ban. A MUSLIM ban? What the fuck?
I kept thinking this is where it starts, but it’s not where it will end. I know better. I read. I’m quite familiar with history. We can depend on it repeating itself, because overall, humans are not very smart. We have terribly short memories. And when does history NOT repeat itself? When will we learn to make changes that work, so we don’t keep killing each other, hurting each other, and starving each other? We never make the changes that might save us as a species. Because we think WE know better.
This administration has barely begun, and I’ve already lost hope that anything good could possibly come of it, not that I had much hope to begin with. I don’t know what to do with the anger that’s right at the surface. I’m not good at expressing that particular feeling.
When I get angry do I yell? Do I write my feelings down? Do I hit things? Do I punch pillows in my therapist’s office? NO. I’ve never punched a pillow because the idea of it seems ridiculous. It’s playacting and I’ve never been good at pretending. When I think about giving it a try, I feel silly and self-conscious. And that’s just from thinking about it. I can’t imagine actually trying it. Such nonsense.
What do I do instead? I cry. I eat. I sleep. I get terribly, terribly depressed. I find ways to medicate myself against all the feelings. And none of that works. I’m doing everything I can to avoid them because they’re painful; I stash them away in a vault that you’d find at Fort Knox, I’m that defended. I’m afraid to feel. I think if I do, I’ll die.
But it’s not feeling those things that’s really killing me.
The woman before me leaves the gym, and Mark walks over in his impish way; his eyes sparkle as a matter of course, he practically bounces with each step. Mark is happy almost all the time, and some days, I can’t stand his ever-present cheer. His positivity can be a bit much for me on my best days. But boy, do I love this guy, and today, he’s toning it down, he sees I’m struggling. He lifts his chin as he scans my face, and says, “hey, what’s up? You okay?” That’s all it took.
My dam bursts, and tears come flooding out of me, and I stammer, “I’m just….s-s-s-s-oo-so-so angry. And he says, “then why are you crying?” And then I cry more because I hate that I cry when I feel angrier than I ever have before.
He looks at me, and says, “Yup, we’re doing something different today.”
I hate working out. I’m a baby about it; I whine, moan, groan, grunt, sweat, swear, and say “do I have to?” a lot. I hate the cardio warm-up, and I hate the cool-down just as much. Some days Mark expects me to jump rope, but I just can’t get the hang of it. Not when I was a kid, and definitely not now. He wants me to do burpees. Burpees suck. They’re hard and I don’t like suffering. Sometimes, he makes me do battle ropes. You know battle ropes? They’re the hardest. I don’t know what he has in mind, as he walks toward a cabinet, and pulls out some boxing gloves and turns back to me.
He says, “Today, you’re gonna hit things.”
He puts the gloves on my hands, and laces them up, nice and snug. He moves the heavy bag from its place in the corner, sets it up in front of me, shows me the proper stance, explains jabs, hooks, and roundhouse punches, steps back, and says, “hit that bag with everything you’ve got for the next full minute. I’ll tell you when to stop. I swear it’ll help.”
And I stood there. Mark says it will help, but I’m doubtful, because I don’t think anything can ever help relieve me of this fury. I’m scared and broken. And the whole idea makes me feel very, very uncomfortable. I don’t hit things. I’m not that person. It doesn’t mean I haven’t wanted to, but my better self is a pacifist. The self who can’t imagine owning a gun, even though the thought of purchasing one has flitted in and out of my head for months, but only if, if, if the unthinkable happened. And it did. Did I buy a gun? I did not. Will I?
That possibility remains to be seen.
When I imagine myself, shotgun in hand, being faced with an intruder, someone who hates me for who I am––someone who might be a threat to my life–– do I pull the trigger? The only image that arises is me, standing in my home, holding the gun, and sobbing uncontrollably, because I can’t imagine taking the life of another human being. It’s the same feeling I have when I think about killing an animal so I can eat. It’s why I can’t eat meat. The more violent the world becomes, the less violent I become. I just can’t.
Years ago, I was lying on my psychoanalyst’s couch listening to her say, “Nan, you need to get angry, you need to express it, you need to get it out. You need to yell. When you bury it, you get depressed. You want to die. You hurt yourself.”
Looking at the ceiling through tears that roll down my face and dampen my neck, I say, “I am. I am. I’m expressing it right now.”
She says, “No, you’re not. You’re crying.”
Then, there’s that other detail. I’m a woman. So, I’m not allowed to be angry. You know what I’m talking about. You’re not allowed to be angry, either. Am I right?
That’s where I think my tears originate. They come from frustration, the inner conflict, the push-pull. Miss Manners and Emily Post perch on my right shoulder, whispering, “be polite, dear.” And Gloria Steinem, Angela Davis, and Bella Abzug, a trio outnumbering the gals on my right; they perch on my left, yelling, “Let it out, Nan. We’ve got you. You have a right to be angry and nothing whatsoever to apologize for. Being polite will get you nowhere.”
And Emily and Miss Manners chime in, “It isn’t polite, it isn’t attractive, it isn’t LADYLIKE.” Ladylike. I hate that expression. Ladylike. The word sparks a whole new round of rage in me. It always has.
And that’s what I need. I need to hear from that fierce trio, reminding me of my worth. I need to be reminded how harmful Miss Manners and Emily Post really are. Their brand of crap is the last thing women need to hear or be expected to model in the frightening culture we find ourselves living in.
I gather myself. I square off at the bag, set my stance, left foot forward, right foot back, and started throwing punches. The first one lands hard, followed by a barrage of blows, tears cooling the heat of my rage, my heart releases, my gut’s on fire. And I strike HIM over and over again. I strike him for the fear he’s longing to instill, I strike him for his arrogance, his privilege, his racism, his greed, his sadism, and his lies. I strike him for the ban on Muslims, and I batter him as a down-payment against his plans to create terror in this country. I throw punches to stop him, and the evil that he’s provoked in his army of haters.
Of course, I have no idea how much worse it would get in time. Nor can I imagine the travesties we’re witnessing today.
Did I say I wasn’t good at pretending? At make-believe? I guess I was wrong, because I had no problem imagining that awful face plastered to the heavy bag I wailed on that day. Mark pulled me off, not after a minute, not after two. He pulled me away from that bag after four minutes of full-on assault. Completely spent, I felt a little better.
Mark was right, it helped, in the moment. But it didn’t solve a thing. We’re in need of more than a couple of boxing gloves and a heavy bag. Because this isn’t make-believe. We’re fighting for our lives.
And I’m pretty sure there will always be tears served up with my rage.
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