When I feel anger inside me, it is the most uncomfortable thing imaginable. It feels too strong, like too much hot sauce on your food. It's not like boredom, which buzzes silently so you can almost feel something. You can ignore it. But anger...I don't like that I can't ignore it. The feeling is not like the joy from seeing someone connect with their body and realize something. Or a moment of just being there without noticing one way or the other.
Anger is the loudmouth in the room who has to get noticed.
I have an addiction. It's all about feeling good. And I'm a junkie for it. The "strongness" of the feeling of "bad" is what bothers me. If I didn't feel that hard lump in my throat, it would be better. It's the hard lump that bothers me. It's like a nut stuck there in its shell that sits there uncracked.
It's easy to understand the words "don't be angry." If I'm not angry, then I'm not angry. But when I am...the worst part is the effects of it. It's this torrent in my body moving the opposite way of everything else, like a vacuum cleaner picking up everything in its midst. You know how if you vacuum and you forget to move certain rugs, the vacuum will just start sucking it up, crunching it and making a horrible whine? Well, that's what anger feels like inside me. I don't like it one bit.
Although, at this moment, when I describe it, I notice the nut went from being a giant one, about the size of a golf ball, to the size of a circle you could make if you curled your index finger all the way into the base of the thumb. And now the vibrations are getting softer. The vibrations are the ping pong ping of mad. And they are getting softer. Now I am having to look harder and harder. It is just a bit of an uncomfortable feeling now--like the size of a marble.
And I am breathing again. This is a good sign. I always know I am coming out of it when I begin to breathe again. The jaw is unclenching. I will watch it pass.
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