The Hard Truth -- Part one

My anger can be uncontrollable, and it’s taken me a long time to recognize and accept that.  I was dating my future wife Janet in the summer of 1969, when I had an angry outburst neither of us has forgotten. It started innocently enough in her parent’s den, where we would shut the door, turn on the TV, and cuddle on the daybed.  One night we had been discussing our life together and what kind of furniture we would have in our future house. Being of Italian background and having grown up with it, I said, “We’ll hafta have plastic seat covers on the sofa and chairs.” It sounded perfectly reasonable to me – but only to me. Janet laughed loudly at this, and was incredulous! She wouldn’t understand why I would say such a thing! “What’s wrong with that?” I shouted.  I got so angry and violent, that I picked her up physically by her arms! For some primal reason, I was so attached to this idea, I got intensely angry, both verbally and physically, at her rejection. Of course, Janet was absolutely appalled, shocked, and crying.  She shouted, “Leave! Immediately!” I knew I had really hurt her, even more emotionally than physically, and so I left. I found out later that my fingers had left bruises on her arms. I thought, This is the last straw, she’s not going to take me back.

It took me a month of groveling, leaving apologetic phone messages, and sending cards, to reach Janet’s heart again. And I will be eternally grateful she accepted me back. What finally did it, I think, was when I handwrote her Shakespeare’s Sonnet Number 40, and mailed it to her. It says in part, “And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief To bear love’s wrong, than hate’s known injury….” I’ve never touched Janet that way again. In fact, I try very hard to not even raise my voice to her, as it has the same effect as a physical assault. When I have, she doesn’t talk to me for days, and my apologies don’t help, they make it worse. During our 41 years of marriage, it’s been impossible not to slip up.

My acceptance of my anger problem however, does not mean control, only amelioration.  What I mean is, my mouth can explode with invective at any time, totally unexpected, and totally cruel and hurtful.  Of course, Janet and our closest friends know this about me, but few others do. At least, I don’t think they know. But I might be wrong about that, since I certainly don’t discriminate in my outbursts, as exhibited by my numerous road rage incidents. It bothers me enough though, knowing I’m capable of such actions and verbal abuses, that I’ve learned to slow down, and bite my tongue more often. Now I try to handle things as if I were a contestant on one of my favorite game shows, Jeopardy. I’ve learned to speak in class only after Maria calls on me, instead of blurting out my opinion. In other words, I try to pause a moment before speaking, as any good anger management counselor will tell you to do. And I’ve been told more than once.

Outburst is the best word to describe what happens to me. I’ve often meditated on what causes my vitriolics, because they often contain nasty curse words, words I haven’t used in over 40 years. I know I’m not a very patient fellow, although I have mellowed greatly since hitting retirement age. Perhaps my lack of patience is my real problem? Or was it thirty years ago when I discovered I was bipolar? That could certainly explain some of my rash impulses, but is not an excuse for my bad behavior.                                               To be continued in Part Two.