Anger is messy and loud

Nosy Nora says that anger is messy and loud. I don't like messy. I don't like loud. And I certainly don't like anger. 

Growing up, I rarely saw my Mom express her anger. My Dad yelled. He would be calm one minute and yelling his head off the next. Sometimes he threw things. Once he threw a mug so hard it crashed right through the drywall and made a big hole. That was terrifying. 

Apparently on the day I was first brought home from the hospital, a car ran into the passenger side of the car where my car seat was and my Dad flew into a rage. One of the first emotions I witnessed was anger. 

Now OBVIOUSLY I don't remember that. I was one day old. My point is that when I did see anger being expressed it was loud and explosive. But most of the time my parents didn't express their feelings. 

I'm told that my parents fought for 7 years before they finally divorced. I did not witness a single one of those fights. They hid them. I didn't see them disagree. I didn't see them talk things out. 

I never learned how to express my emotions in a healthy way. I didn't learn how to communicate disagreements with a partner because I had no role models. 

I had the same teacher from kindergarten to grade 6. His name was M. He was big and loud and funny and kind. And he was also a yeller. He yelled often. Daily. Many times through out the day. Our "school" was basically a hippie commune. Although the adults were clearly in charge and there were strict rules to adhere to, the expectations for language were very different than most other places in our society. Swearing was perfectly acceptable. An adult telling a kid off was acceptable. A kid telling off an adult was acceptable. I can't tell you how many times M told students to get their heads out of their asses. 

I wasn't scared of M. Not at all. He was loving and gentle. I learned many things from him. I was scared of his anger though. His yelling was loud and messy. I don't do loud. Or messy. 

When I think of anger, I think of being chastised. I was only "in trouble" 4 times in my entire school career from kindergarten to grade 13. I remember each time clearly. I remember being yelled at. I remember being scared. Scared and shamed. So I tried very hard to be a good girl and to not get into trouble. I did everything I could to follow the rules, to be kind, to do what I was told, and to never to get yelled at again. 

Yelling scares me more than anything else in the world. 

As a teacher, I almost never raise my voice. If I do, it's because I have exhausted every other option. But I don't yell. 

When we were little, my brother and I used to fight. Like all siblings. He would hit me and be annoying like a little brother does. One evening we were watching TV in the basement and I was getting particularly annoyed. I got mad and slapped his leg. I yelled at him and said "I hate you and wish you had never been born." 

I might as well have reached inside of him with my bare hands and torn out his heart. 

He went running up to my parents room and closed the door and I didn't see him the rest of the night. In the morning, my Mom told me that he had cried for nearly 2 hours. He had cried so much that he vomited. 

That broke my heart. My anger response shamed me. 

And I worked hard at keeping my anger buried even further inside. 

There have been many, many times in my relationships with family, friends, and partners when I have been angry. But I don't tell them. I hold it in. I fume inside. And then I punish myself by bingeing or purging or starving myself. 

Over the years, I have developed an internal persona I have named Angry April. She is incredibly mean and persistent. She talks to me all the time. She tells me how stupid I am. She bosses me around. She reminds me that I am fat and ugly and worthless and undeserving. She takes all of the anger that I feel and turns it against myself. And wow is she ever good at punishing me ... Am I ever good at punishing myself. Turning my anger inward. Directing it at myself. 

Nosy Nora and I have talked a lot about anger. It's hard to even admit to her that I feel anger about anything. I can admit to her being sad, hurt, isolated, betrayed, abandoned ... But she often asks me if I'm angry at a person or about a situation. And I always say no. 

I did finally start to accept that I have anger inside of me. I have begun to express my anger through my art. Or through talking to Nosy Nora. But I still don't tell the person that I am mad at. Because the thought of expressing my feelings to another person terrifies me. 

Why is it so scary? 

Because the person might react with anger. And I am scared to have someone mad at me. 

When someone is mad at me, the scared little girl inside of me curls up into a ball and Angry April takes over. 

She berates me and tells me that I deserve the anger being directed at me. 

So anger is messy. And loud. And explosive. But inside myself. 

Nosy Nora suggested that I draw anger. See what it looks like. Explore it. 

Anger to me looks like violence and rage. Because no one ever taught me how to say I'm mad. 

As I said, expressing my emotions to another person in an appropriate way is something that I have not yet learned to do. 

Yesterday I learned some things about myself. 

1.  I have anger inside of me that wants to come out. 

2.  I AM capable of expressing my anger to the person I (think) I am angry at. 

3.  When I get angry I turn into a raging lunatic or a 5 year old child having a temper tantrum. 

4.  There are certain things that strike a nerve, push my buttons, and trigger me. 

Every single time that I go to my therapy appointment with Nosy Nora I get butterflies in my stomach. As I approach her office, I have second thoughts about going in. I sit in the waiting room nervous and anxious, worrying about what will happen next. I am totally and completely convinced that when she opens that door, she will be angry. That there will be something that I did or said that has pissed her off, or annoyed her, or made her not like me any more. And EVERY SINGLE TIME that door opens, she greets me with a smile. EVERY SINGLE TIME. For 3 years. There is absolutely no reason at all for me to believe that she will do anything besides smile. But I'm so scared of people being angry at me ... I'm so scared of the people I care about being angry at me ... So I project it on her and expect the worst. Always. 

Loud. Messy. 

On Monday I was repeatedly called a "fat fucking bitch" by a stranger in a mall. On Tuesday I cried throughout my entire therapy session with Nosy Nora. I expressed my feelings about myself and about my body. I expressed how much I hate my body. At one point she said that she is certain that I see myself as much larger than I really am. It's not the first time that she has told me that. 

At the end of the session, Nosy Nora made a comment about me and Botticelli paintings and the word voluptuous. Which to me is another word for fat. It was the 3rd time she had made such a comment about his art and me. I felt the anger inside of me, but Angry April took over and directed it back at myself. "Of course she would think that you could be a Botticelli painting because they are enormously fat women and so are you, stupid idiot!" 

I went home. Cried some more. Did not eat a single thing. And then started painting inspirational quotes to try to make myself feel better. I got really into it. I found amazing quotes and illustrated them. Shared them with friends and received copious amounts of praise. I was feeling better and emailed some of my new art to Nosy Nora. 

This was one of the drawings: 

I was proud of that painting. I thought it was fitting to draw a large woman being brave enough to go to the beach and to wear a bathingsuit. 

I went to sleep with a smile on my face. 

When I woke up, there was an email from Nosy Nora responding to my artwork. Now emails from Nosy Nora are a bit of a thrill for me. It's embarrassing to admit that because I know that she will read this. But getting an email from her means that she has read my words, heard what I had to say, and cared enough to respond. It makes me feel like I matter. And Angry April spends so much time telling me how much I don't matter that a little reminder helps to combat the power she holds over me (the power I hold over mySelf).  

Part of her email said, "I especially like the one of you in your bathing suit [...] there are so many ways of being brave and this is one of them!" 

That was meant as a compliment. Meant to acknowledge the work I have been doing. Acknowledge my feelings. Acknowledge my bravery. But it struck a nerve and I told Angry April to get out of my way!!!!

That was NOT supposed to be a drawing of me. It was supposed to be a random fat woman. The idea that Nosy Nora thought it was me obviously meant that she thought that I LOOKED like THAT. Which obviously meant that she had been lying to me for years. That she did, in fact, see me as large and as giant as I see myself. 

I felt hurt and betrayed and lied to and angry. I felt the rage bubbling inside of me. And this time, Angry April didn't show up to take it away from me. 

I wrote an angry email saying that I was hurt and betrayed and MAD.  And I pressed "send". 

Now you have to understand that words are my passion. The ways in which I join the words together to craft my thoughts into sentences for other people to read is very important to me. When I write an email, I read it over and over again and edit it until I have found the right way to express my thoughts. I work hard at being diplomatic and appropriate. People often seek my advice on how to communicate in appropriate and diplomatic ways.

Yesterday I did none of that. I wrote it swiftly with angry fingers and sent it without reading it over. 

Then I had to wait all day for a response. 

Around 5:00 I took a shower. I HATE taking showers. It means getting naked and staying naked. It means seeing my naked flesh. It means feeling the curves as I lather myself with soap. It means feeling my shape as I dry off with my towel. And it means catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. 

So there I was, in the shower, feeling exposed to myself, unable to hide from myself, and my anger began to boil again. Me? A Botticelli? A big fat blob of flesh and folds and flubs painted on a canvas?! I said to myself, "She wants to see that? FINE!" I threw on some clothes, stomped down the stairs and picked up my iPad. I drew the biggest woman I could imagine. I drew angrily with tears streaming down my face. I drew and drew and cried and cried. And I sent it to her. 

She wanted a "beautiful" "sensual" "voluptuous" woman, so I gave her one. 

And I sat on the couch and sobbed. 

Around 6:45, I got an email from Nosy Nora in which she apologized for hurting me. She apologized for not hearing me. And for assuming that the painting of the woman in the bathingsuit was me. 

I didn't feel better. 

Something just wasn't right. 

After I read the email, I sat on the porch with a friend, talking about how I was feeling - something that I am learning to do. After our talk she gave me a good, tight, long hug. And I felt like I mattered. 

But something still wasn't right. 

Standing in my friend's living room, I began to have a panic attack. Once again, I was completely convinced that Nosy Nora was mad at me. So I asked her if she was. I told her that I had overreacted because she had struck a nerve. She responded: 

"I'm not mad at you. I'm listening and will try harder to hear you. I am human and I do make mistakes. Pretty risky to tell me you were mad at me. I'm glad you did.  Repressing is not such a good plan." 

The pains of the panic attack were not subsiding and Nosy Nora had suggested a hug could help with panic attacks. So I asked my friend to hug me. Tight. Tighter. And it worked. The pain stopped. The panic stopped. 

But something still wasn't sitting right with me. Something was off. 

I spent last night drawing. And around 3am I had the idea to google Botticelli. 

I can't even begin to explain my embarrassment. I was mortified. 

I have seen his paintings many times over the years. I am not ignorant of art. But somehow, through my body dysmorphia I convinced myself that his women were huge flabby naked beasts that would be humiliating to be compared to. I convinced myself that they were ugly and enormous, just like I have convinced myself that I am. 

Imagine my shame when I looked at those paintings and saw them for what they really are ... Beautiful women with slight curves. 

Ummmm .... Where were the mounds of flesh? Where were the flabby wobbly bits? Where were these enormous women that I had created in my mind???? 

Needless to say, I wrote a 3am apology email to Nosy Nora and told her that she is more than welcome to compare me to those beautiful women and to use the word voluptuous anytime she wants.

Feeling angry at Nosy Nora was perfectly acceptable. All feelings are acceptable. They are just feelings and they will pass, as she has told me many times. And telling someone that I am hurt, upset, and/or angry with them is a GOOD thing. 

However, despite Nosy Nora telling me that my reaction and my actions and my words were "all okay" ... I can't help but feel that I was childish and immature and inappropriate. I was a 5 year old yelling at her mommy that she hates her and kicking her in the shin. 

And I don't think that my behaviour was any better than allowing Angry April to belittle me. 

I accept that I was human. That I made a mistake. 

I also believe that I acted without thinking. That I was a big baby. 

Why did I feel so much anger and hurt? 

My feelings about my body are built on years of conditioning and shaming. Shame and comments from my parents, my family, my friends, my classmates, from strangers, from the media. Fat shaming is the last acceptable oppression in North American society. Fat jokes are acceptable. And rampant. And laughed at. I was already feeling worthless and self-loathing when the man on the escalator called me fat. He validated those feelings with his comments. And no one seems to understand that. It was never about him or the fact that he said anything to me. It was about him publicly shaming me. It was about him publicly confirming how I already feel about myself. So Nosy Nora pushed a button that was already exposed and sore. 

Consider this a public apology, Nosy Nora. Despite you saying that it is unnecessary. Despite the fact that after you read this you will disagree with me and try to tell me that it's okay. Please don't. My choice in HOW I expressed myself is not okay with me. The message that I wanted to convey was important. Telling Nosy Nora that she had hurt me was important. Having a tantrum was not. 

Anger. It's messy and loud. And I don't like it. My responses to anger seem to be to take it out on myself or to explode in a childish temper tantrum. Now I need to find option number 3. 

Being able to express your feelings to another person in a healthy way that does not hurt them is possibly the most important thing that we can learn to do. It is what connects us to each other. 

Be kind to yourself, AND to others, 

xoxo

...

FAT FAT FAT!!!

BEING FAT MEANS I HAVE EXTRA PADDING AROUND MY BONES AND MY MUSCLES AND MY ORGANS. 

IT DOES NOT MEAN THAT I HAVE EXTRA PADDING AROUND MY FEELINGS. 

I AM A HUMAN. 

A HUMAN WHO HURTS. 

A HUMAN WHO IS A DAUGHTER, A SISTER, A NEICE, AN AUNT, A PARTNER, A FRIEND, A TEACHER, A WRITER, AN ARTIST, AN ACTIVIST, A PACIFIST, A SOCIALIST, A LESBIAN, A BLOGGER, A DOG OWNER, A READER, A LEARNER, A FACEBOOK ADDICT, A THIRD GENERATION TORONTONIAN, A WIFE, A WOMAN, A FEMINIST, A QUEER. 

I AM HUMAN. 

AND I HAVE FEELINGS!!!! AND THOSE FEELINGS CAN BE STOMPED ON AND RIPPED OUT AND TORN INTO TINY PIECES AND FED TO HUNGRY TIGERS ON A PERFECTLY STRAWBERRY DAY. 

FAT PEOPLE ARE TREATED LIKE WE ARE BENEATH OTHERS, ESPECIALLY THOSE WITH THIN PRIVILEGE. ANGRY HATEFUL MEAN PEOPLE WHO HURL THE WORD FAT WITH THE INTENT TO HURT. 

THERE IS NO OTHER INTENT. 

YOU DONT THROW AN INSULT AT SOMEONE IF YOU ARE TRYING TO MAKE FRIENDS. OR IF YOU ARE TRYING OUT THE WORD. 

NO. 

THERE IS A PURPOSE IN CALLING PEOPLE NAMES AND THAT PURPOSE IS TO BE HATEFUL AND MEAN. 

AND I SHOULD BE ABOVE ALL OF THAT. 

BUT I AM HUMAN. AND I AM NOT ABOVE IT AT ALL. 

i have been drawing a lot about exclusion. And I will write more about that over the next few weeks. But the idea of exclusion got me to thinking about my weight and all the times that my body has been judged leading to social exclusion. And sometimes I am the one judging my body and excluding myself from social occasions. 

I didn't go to my 10 year high school reunion because I didn't want anyone to see how fat I had become. I was 150 lbs. and to me that meant I was a whale. 

I grew up bullied and excluded. 

So when something like this happens to me it brings up all sorts of old hurts that never seem to mend. They manage to scab but the scab keeps falling off and I bleed again before new skin has time to heal. 

TODAY A MAN TREATED ME LIKE I WAS NOTHING. LIKE I WAS A NOBODY. LIKE MY  (ACCIDENTAL) DISMISSAL OF HIM WAS CAUSE FOR A VERBAL ASSAULT. 

I was on an escalator in the mall by Mel Lastman Square. Apparently the man behind me had said hello to me. But I didn't hear him. What I DID hear was him ranting. "That fat fucking bitch can't even say hi to me. What's wrong with that fat bitch? I say hello and she can't even say hi back? Fat bitch, can't you say hi to me? What the fuck is wrong with you fat bitch?" 

............

............

............

I took a breather so that you could let that sink in. Perhaps read it again. Some of you are in shock. Some of you don't care. Some of you are angry. Or protective of me. And some of you are thinking yes this happens to me too. 

Because this isn't the first time. Or the tenth. And it won't be the last. 

FAT SEEMS TO BE THE WORST THING YOU CAN CALL SOMEONE. 

The man on the escalator was not alone. He was with a friend. So was I. 

His friend was telling him to keep his voice down. Everyone around us could hear him yelling at me and they were staring. Which only brought further attention to me, to my body, and to my shame. His friend didn't tell him to stop, only to lower his voice. His friend didn't tell me he was sorry. Or ask me if I was okay. His friend stood by and let this happen. The many onlookers did nothing. Said nothing. Because fat people are fat. We are lazy, greedy, gluttonous, lumps who sit on our asses all day eating fast food. The man was just telling it like it is. 

I can hear many of you thinking that I should not give him so much power. That I am taking the rankings of a mean or unwell man. Or a man who was having a bad day. That I am taking his outburst too seriously. That I am taking it to heart. That I shouldn't let it hurt me. That I shouldn't let it bother me. That I shouldn't let it affect me. 

But it wasn't the crazy rantings of one man. It is a build up of many strangers who think it is okay to call me names with the word "fat" thrown in for good measure. Because "fat" is the clincher. 

It was the onlookers who hurt me to my core. Who allowed it to continue. To allowed him to berate me. 

Could I have turned around and said something to him? Perhaps. Would he have said he was sorry? Perhaps. From past experience, I ca only imagine he would do what others have done which would be to increase the verbal assault to full on verbal warfare. Dropping names like machine gun fire pinging at me in rapid succession and sinking into my heart. 

I was stunned into silence. And scared into submission. 

I did nothing. 

Having so many people hearing him call me names. Specifically the repetition of "fat" made me feel naked and exposed. 

And I felt like I must be a fat bitch because nobody stood up for me. Nobody stepped in. I regressed back to my bullied 13 year old self who would cry in the bathroom after the boys sang my theme song, "Hippie the Hippo".  And even when I asked for help the teachers would laugh. Because taunting is funny. 

 My friend who was with me on the escalator heard nothing. She was oblivious to the event. And I was so shamed and dehumanized and stunned, that I couldn't even tell her what had happened. I just kept walking. And I finished our visit on autopilot. 

I am fat. 

I drove home from my friend's house and decided that I would never eat again. I would starve myself and lose 100 lbs by the end of the summer. 

But I decided that the only person getting hurt in that scenario would be me. And as badly as I wanted to punish myself for being fat, that hardly seemed like the best option. 

I am fat. 

As I was thinking through the starving myself plan, it occurred to me that there was another option. Go buy a bag of chips, donuts, and ice cream and go home and eat them. In fact, go home and eat everything. IN FACT, don't stop eating at all! I could eat and eat and eat and not do any exercising at all. And get to be over 600 lbs and not be able to leave my house, possibly even my bed. And then I would have a reason to stay home permanently and never have to be seen ever, ever again. 

As I drove to 7-11 hatching my scheme for gaining at least 500 lbs, it occurred to me that this too was only going to hurt me and not the  man who harmed me. And although self-punishment is what I do best, it didn't seem like the right option either. 

I am fat. 

I had a moment where I pondered how I could make myself disappear forever so that no one could ever look at me again. Which would mean no one could ever ridicule me over my body ever again. 

But I AM fat. That's the reality. 

PP REMINDED ME TONIGHT, "you are not fat, you have fat."

I was able to practice self-care. To draw what happened to me. To write about it. instead of starving. Instead of binging. 

And through my drawing, I developed compassion for the man who hurt me. What was his life like that he has to lash out and hurt others? What was done to him to cause him so much hurt and bitterness? 

DONT MISUNDERSTAND ME. I AM FURIOUS. HOW DARE HE DEMEAN, DEHUMANIZE, AND INSULT ME. 

and at the same time, to have that much meanness and hatefulness and spitefulness in you ... It had to come from somewhere. 

I am angry. I am hurt. The qualifier "fat" will always be attached to my description. To my identity. To my experience of the world - the way I navigate the world and the way I am treated. 

I found a way to manage my emotions by drawing and writing.  

Find your outlet. 

Be kind to yourself, and for crying out loud, BE KIND TO OTHERS!!!!

xoxo

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