The Consequences of Anger

Only in the bosom of fools

“How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it.” — Marcus Aurelius

I’m 75 now. Maybe I’ve mellowed.

Used to be I carried my anger with me everywhere like a bullwhip. I’d lash out at the most unexpected, the least worthy. Like that kid sacking my groceries and didn’t ask me whether I want paper or plastic. Boy howdy, did he get an earful. That was some time back, but I remember the look he gave me. Doubted then we’d ever be friends.

Lots of incidents like that over the years. Bad enough it was that sixteen-year-old bag boy just doing his job, but my kids, my wife, my dogs. They had to catch hell for no good reason. I always had apologies, remorse. They all forgave me, so they said. Hell, the dogs never gave it a second thought. But kids and wives aren’t dogs. There ain’t no collision repair shop for crumpled psyches. I still look back on the outbursts and words with regret.

Seemed like anger issues were just a part of who I was. At an annual physical a few years back, my doc asked how I was getting along. Told him I often just didn’t give a damn.

“Ah, you’re depressed,” he said. Wrote me a script and handed it to me. “Happens to people your age. Here, take these.” Now that pissed me off. He’s a smart-assed pup.

So, I did: take the meds. Guess it helps. Thing is, I still don’t give a damn, just not depressed about it.

Then a couple years back, a shrink at the VA said I was a skosh crazy, had some of that PTSD stuff from my military experiences. Shoot, not something I ever considered; just figured I had a burr under my blanket. Men and women with missing limbs, broken bodies, scarred souls were the ones with PTSD. They deserve it, not me. I’m not worthy of such a disability.

That’s when I changed things. I started attempting to be nicer, to not take things so personally, to blow off the small stuff. Maybe the meds helped; hell, I don’t know.

I think my grandkids helped, though. Who can get mad at grandkids, that’s their parents’ job. Not saying they’re little angels, just kids. None of us are perfect, and kids are more not perfect than the rest of us. That’s why some of us get the title “Responsible Adult.” Note I said some of us. It’s our task and responsibility to bring the little beggars up to that level.

Besides the meds, life experience helps dull the edge on anger, too. Like when that guy cuts me off when I’m trying to get on the freeway. No big deal now. He thinks it’s a power thing. Me, I figure he got held back in Responsible Adult school. So, I try to teach him a lesson — move in nice and calm behind him, maybe give him a friendly wave. Freeway supremacy is no longer a priority for me.

Lots of things I can do like that when I stop and think about it. Like tell the bag boy he’s the expert, he should decide; then tell him he’s doing an outstanding job and I appreciate him. Or tell the Hispanic girl behind the fast-food counter I just don’t hear as fast as I used to. And say it with a smile to imply an apology. Or the workmen who come around my place to fix or replace things for which I pay gobs of money. They most likely only take home a smidge of that money I pay their bosses. I tell them I appreciate their work and envy their skills.

Anger is destructive. Lots of angry people out in the world now, especially in the United States, a good part of them young. Their handlers say it’s because of racial injustice or police brutality or our country’s history or our outspoken, flamboyant president. Those first two are righteous things to get angry about, but none of them are enough to engender rioting, burning and looting. Destructive anger doesn’t stem from indignation, rather it comes from poor instruction along the road to earning that degree in Responsible Adulthood.

A colleague, Fatim Hemraj, wrote a piece which illustrates what I’m trying to say (much to my chagrin):

Maybe in the age and land of plenty, the young RA candidates have too much. Maybe they have experienced no hardships of their own, have paid no price.

Looks to me like a lot of them are children of privilege and wealth, who don’t understand right and wrong. Maybe life is just another video game to them where the quantum lines between the concrete and virtual distort reality.

Maybe their mentors are unfulfilled and disgruntled refugees from the Sixties who are like overbearing sports moms and dads who want the next generation to accomplish what they couldn’t, however warped. Then again, maybe they’re just ignorant pawns with time and energy on their side. The perfect foot soldiers for their terror-bent puppeteers.

Don’t want to leave this ramble with the self-righteous impression that I’ve conquered anger. I still get mad, mad as hell.

Seeing American cities burned in the name of “peaceful protest” angers me. Watching mobs of young “revolutionaries” storm the streets with rioting because they think living in a Marxist state or a land of no state is the answer to their discontent, makes me angry. They only believe in the ideal and have no conception of what history or reality is or would be under such control.

Seeing police maligned, abused, and assassinated infuriates me. Any fool can see eliminating law enforcement does not cure the atrocities of a few individuals. Rather, it creates a beachhead for the radical overthrow of our government.

I’m 75 now and I’ve mellowed. Perhaps too old to battle the wave of the current revolution as a counter-revolutionary. But I would advise my grandchildren and their peers not to get caught up in the misguided hysteria that’s raging across our culture.

People my age — as Doc would say — can only advise. But we advise from a perspective of years, a collection of triumphs and disasters. So I would say, don’t remain ignorant, don’t let false narratives manipulate you, learn history, weigh both sides of what you’re told is right. Make your anger productive and positive.

Strive to to live healthy and lucky enough to make it to at least 75.

Thanks for indulging an old man and taking time to read this piece. I only wish you peace and a courageous life whose every anger is righteous.

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