“My Anger Wears A Black Hoodie” is a favorite piece from my quasi-memoir, The Reluctant Tarot Reader: Adventures in the Gypsy Trade. My anger has shared an uneasy alliance with the rest of my parts; this is a report back from the battlefield.
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MY ANGER WEARS A BLACK HOODIE
(from The Reluctant Tarot Reader: Vignettes of Fire)
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I want to be a kinder, more peaceful person. I do. It’s such an appealing idea. Thich Nhat Hanh in his economically titled book, Anger, suggests embracing rage like a mother comforting her baby.
Now is the ideal time: my latest ex helpfully shares that I have anger issues before yelling, “Fuck off!” and slamming down the phone.
The happily-ever-after quickly turns to sitting shiva. Lust, Insecurity, Vulnerability and Happiness already circle up by the fire, attempting to thaw out. This time, I invite Anger but she doesn’t even RSVP. She just shoots over with a trunk full of explosives.
Giddy up, little soldier.
I envision a looming presence and am startled when a 4′ 11″ gansta covered head to toe in a skull-stamped black hoodie swaggers up. She stops right at the edge of the Welcome mat as the others nervously ignore her. She’s crashed many a party and after three decades, they are finished with her antics.
Anger stands there like a concrete pillar; doesn’t show her face or let me take her hoodie. She is goddamn for sure not going to sit until she goddamn well pleases. Still, it’s toasty inside and she looks tired of being left out in the cold. There’s some old beef with Vulnerability but she isn’t here for a throwdown. Not yet. More pressing matters press.
Happiness and Insecurity sip Manhattans and chat away in an effort to regain their feminine graces, while Lust simply pouts in a corner. It’s been a tough week for all after losing a sultry summer romance that offered regular doses of wild sex. Anger is ready to rumble and pissed that we aren’t rushing to the safety deposit box to grasp the well-worn Scorched Earth Policy. Not that it is needed. We know it by heart.
Though her eyes are cast down, I feel a bubbling excitement lengthening her spine. Her thoughts thrust out like shiny swords.
Payback time. What did that bitch say? Fuck off? Ha. Anger? She ain’t seen nothin’ yet. We filter everything through a defensive shield? Smart cookie. Not too in touch with her own issues. When I’m done with her, Anger mumbles, she’ll feel every wounded piece of herself. Call it my special trigger-point therapy.
The more I tune into my nemesis, the more my blood pulses. That same thrilling rush of adrenaline.
Maybe this is life, I think. Tell the truth. Nothing held back. Fuck it. Anger and I do so well together. Our exs may not like us but they sure as hell remember us.
Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.
Love, the Goddess, glows with extra wattage in the periphery. I roll my eyes at her.
Gimme a break. I know your game. You want me to feel all empathetic. “Let go”. Be compassionate ‘n shit. Remember “the good”. Realize “the purpose” of our time together. Right. Here we are, processing another broken heart. Same old shit. Same old place. Bitter and hopeless. I’m done with soft.
Glow, glow, glow.
Anger pushes, pushes, pushes to call back, pick up a pen, do something for fuck’s sake!
Let’s go! Are we going to fucking let her get away with that fucking shit? No one talks to us like that! What the FUCK are you doing sitting there? Don’t pay attention to Love!
This time, I hesitate. The wearisome toll that Anger demands tilts the scales. I want us to finally experience something that is a rarity in our world.
Peace.
I offer her a drink — but am met with a huffy refusal.
She does, however, step over the threshold.
