Family Frets
Anger Fret
Why are there few things as satisfying as Fruit Ninja? Why can’t my hair look like I just walked out of Drybar every morning of my life? Why does Chardonnay have more calories than Diet Coke? Why does inspiration strike when I don’t have time to write? Why can’t my daughter just trust that I do want what’s best for her – and that sunblock is an essential, daily habit for a pale Angelino? Why is there such a paucity of people who realize it is—or should be — all about me?
“You sound angry.”
“I thought I was being funny.”
“Guess there’s too much truth in your humor at the moment.”
I am angry. I am energized. I am enervated. I am pissed. My rage – at my world, at the world beyond my microcosm – at myself— fuels my ire. I am jealous. I am self-pitying. I am enraged. Life is unfair and it’s pissing me off.
In a previous life, I channeled my angry energy into writing – and producing – wrongs. The first amendment guarantees all Americans the right to be freaks. I will not accept that those empowered to enforce the laws of my country – and paid for with my tax dollars – can treat outsiders, weirdos, ‘them’, those we don’t dare allow in our backyards – without due process.[1] I am nauseated by the incompetent questioning of children about their possible abuse. It puts innocent people behind bars.[2] I don’t care who two consenting adults care to love – only if they can play the game.[3]
I don’t make films anymore (I still distribute them and thus the inclusion of my self-serving footnotes) so my anger propels me to …. negativity. Rage. Jealousy – why does it seem the proverbial Joneses kick my ass on every metric? Why is my hair a frizzy mess? And why, oh why, oh why won’t my daughter accept my guidance without a fight? Why? Why? Why?
I am angry at the strong-willed daughter I prayed for while pregnant. Yes, I even rage at the irony. I rage at the teen who chafes against my ambitions for her. At a system that will make it harder for her out-of-the-box soul to find its passion and place.
My daughter fights just to spar – I guess anger is her energy too. She is a mirror of my failings – those from which I am trying to save the both of us.
I could be wrong I could be right
I could be black I could be white
But I know that the road will rise with me… If I can model restraint instead of giving into the emotion of a contentious moment. A fierce spirit can only separate with a fight. A fight that will serve her well in our troubled world. I could be wrong, but I think I’m right in my belief that love and boundaries will put my kids on a road that can rise with them. And with me. Because anger is an energy. I just need to point in the right direction.
