Day 30

I know you're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but one of my favorites just shows a closeup image of a woman's smallish hand with the middle finger protruding. The title: Pissed Off. It's a memoir written by a woman who, much like me, has been pissed off for a good portion of her life.

Looking at the pictures of my cherubic two year old self, I know that I wasn't born angry. I cannot, however, remember a time when angry wasn't a frequent and close companion. Yet most people would describe me as "nice" or "sweet" or "kind" (oh, yeah, that really pisses me off). Mostly I keep my anger a secret. It simmers quietly until one day it boils over. Then watch out.

Today I have already been pissed off at least twice. First, I went to the gym and found it packed with short-timers trying to work off those holiday pounds. Going to the gym is not my favorite activity, I prefer to do it without some sweaty guy panting on the next machine. I like my space and I am willing to juggle my schedule to avoid peak times. The problem: for the last month all times are peak times. I immediately need to determine who is to blame here. It's the owners, the greedy bastards, they've oversold the place. I should give them a piece of my mind. This is where I stop myself because I know that sometimes speaking out only fuels the flames for me.

I belong to a writing group that meets many of my social needs as well as my need for encouragement and support. Recently I made a request at a meeting that we limit the number of pieces that we discuss at each meeting. There was very little discussion about my request. I made the assumption (uh huh, you know I'm in trouble now) that others must be in agreement since they didn't express any dissention. I thought we agreed on the two pieces that we would consider at our next meeting. I put it out of my mind, until today. Several people have submitted additional pieces for consideration at our next meeting. What the hell? Did they not hear my request? Did they disagree but were unwilling to talk about it? Are they being passive aggressive? These are the the places my mind goes like a race car, 0 to 60 in 3.8 seconds.

I am learning to slow down. I am learning to ask: what do I need? I am finding over and over that the need to be heard is an important one for me. I took all the stuff we learned in school about democracy seriously. I want to have my say and I want you to have your say. I am a great believer in the power of discussion.

I hope that those of us in the writing group can have an open dialogue about our respective needs and our vision for the group. If not, I hope that I will find a way to get my needs met, either in this group or elsewhere. I suspect I will keep slogging along trying to get a better handle on this anger thing.

When I was a very little girl one of my favorite stories was one called The Littlest Angel. It was about an angel with disheveled wings and a dirty face, who preferred playing in the dirt to playing the harp. Many of the nonviolent communication practitioners I have met or read about seem rather angelic to me. They say and do all the right things, their feet barely touching the ground. I used to be intimidated by this, knowing that I would never be so serene. Recently, I stopped trying. I am becoming more comfortable with holding my anger and my intention for nonviolence simultaneously, just as the little angel accepted himself as an angel with very human qualities.