Let’s talk more about the anger I have in my heart. I don’t want to have it, but I’m not trying to tamp it down any longer, either. Anger can be a useful tool as long as it’s used well and judiciously. It’s something I’ve had to learn to embrace rather than try to stuff it way down or pretend I wasn’t feeling. Here’s the post I wrote yesterday about my anger.
I have quoted Dr. Bruce Banner on several occasions, the same quote, because it fits me so well. “That’s my secret, Cap. I’m always angry.” Right before he seamlessly turns into the Hulk. This was after Captain America told him that now might be the time to get angry.
That’s how I am in my heart, too. I’m always angry. Always. Even when I’m happy or at peace, there is a kernel of anger in my heart. When I talk about how I’m still alive, I mention three things–luck, love, and Taiji. But, I think I have to add that little grain of anger, too. And spite. Just the smallest hint of spite. You think I’m a freak and a weirdo, and you wish that I were dead? Well, fuck you. I died twice, bitch, and I came back. Twice!
I don’t think spite should be a huge part of what keeps you going, but just a soupcon of it? Hell, yeah! It should be about 1% with anger being about 4%. The remaining 95% would probably be better off as positive emotions, but that’s not easy to do. Especially for someone like me who suffers from both depression and anxiety.
When I was in the hospital and after I got home, my depression went down 90% and my anxiety around 60%. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t waking up wanting to go back to sleep forever. I wasn’t up and at ’em, either, but that was just beacuse of my physical limitations–not my mental ones. Again, after dying twice, my body was tired and deserved a little break.
It’s weird. It was the first time in my life I was going to bed by 10 p.m. and getting up at 6 a.m. It was the first time I was actually getting eight hours of sleep and feeling rested when I woke up. It’s funny what sleep will do for a body, isn’t it? (Yes, I know it’s a proven fact that getting eight hours of a sleep a nighht does wonders for you.) I will say that being drugged to the gills with sedatives, barbs, and opiates were very helpful for my sleep. I would not recommend it on a regular basis, however.
I will note that I felt like a god when I was drugged. A very tired god, yes, but a god, nonetheless. I experienced no pain, and for the first time in my life, I felt as if I could do anything. Honestly, I understood why people did drugs because my god. They were wonderful. Plus my beloved oxygen tube. I wanted to take that thing home with me when I left, but the nurses wouldn’t let me.
Side note: About twenty years ago (maybe fifteen?) I saw pure oxygen bars start to spring up in the city. I scoffed at them for being a newfangled fad that was bound to fail, but now? I would definitely go to one. I loooooved breathing in that pure ox (as I called it).
It was two weeks after I got home that the crash happened. Or rather, that I suddenly realized I had a body, and it was sore. I was able to do my stretches and warmups the day after I got home, but it was a limited set. I can’t remember how long it was until I started doing my weapons, but probably a few months because I really did not want to fuck anything up. Plus, my parents were here, which would have put a damper on my practice.
I checked my posts. I was actually doing a light weapons workout by the third week I was home. I’m estimating because of course I did not write an actual post until I was home for almost a month, but it’s close enough.
I’m still in awe at how quickly I returned to something even close to normal for me after what I went through. I should hold that in my heart, but it’s hard to keep that feeling of wonder. I mean, for the first year I was home, I was grateful just to open my eyes in the morning. I would stare outside my living room window and just be amazed to still be here.
That couldn’t last forever, obviously. It’s simply impossible to always be in a heightened state of appreciation. Also, mental health, sadly, does not always remain stable, either. As the years went on, my depression grew as did my anxiety. I would say my depression is probably 70% of what it was before and my anxiety around 60%.
It’s hard to assess, obviously. Self-assessment is not very reliable. But I know when I’m slipping, and I’m slipping. Givien the state of the world, I’m not even sure that I’m glad to be back any longer. It’s been really hard, and I can feel the anger bubbling up inside. I have to keep my news intake to a minimum lest I drive myself crazy over it. It’s hard not to read/watch the news with bleak despair, so it’s much better to keep it to the bare minimum.
I’m trying to control my temper as best I can. It’s so hard. It’s almost physical painful when I have to restrain myself, but it’s just what I have to do. It’s not cool to go around exploding all the time. Even if it’s justifiable in the sense of someone being aggravating. I can’t do anything about that, though, so I have to work on myself.
I don’t watch the Avengers, but I have seen the Hulk before, of course. I don’t really relate to him excpect for the anger part, but that really resonates within me. I wished I didn’t feel such rage. I am working on it, but I feel I have so far to go.