Anger

I grew up with the illusion that anger was wrong, that we should not be angry because it created tension, and tension was awkward. It was implied that anger was a sign of incapability, a poor reflection of a person’s emotional maturity. Anger was an extreme emotion that made you ugly, immature, disruptive. It made you say things that you didn’t mean - or perhaps that you did, and maybe that was worse.

It’s not that I didn’t get angry, but I met my anger with shame that I even felt it to begin with. I met anger with an eagerness to hide it, by either hiding myself physically or covering it up with a nod and agreement with whoever made me feel this unfavourable emotion. Nod and the anger will go away. Hide and the tension will disappear.

What I didn’t recognize was that this pattern I was teaching myself, this decision to hide my anger, disagreement, or questioning, didn’t actually make the tension disappear. Tension needs to be diffused, through honesty, conversation, empathy, security, space. Sure, it may have no longer existed externally in that moment between me and someone else or me and a circumstance, but it instead shifted internally where I held it, to diffuse within me with every exhale.

I’ve come to learn (and gradually appreciate) how normal anger is, how healthy it is, even necessary. Suppressing it robs you of experiencing the full spectrum of your emotions, leading to an internal imbalance that permeates your physical body. You hold it in every joint, muscle, knot, or ache.

Anger is your defense to things that could hurt or harm you. It’s how you learn what you’re not ok with and shines light on where a boundary might be helpful. Prohibiting yourself from experiencing it, by suppressing it repeatedly, teaches your innate defenses to step back. Over time, the consistent suppression of natural, normal, healthy anger can create an unhealthy body, a body that doesn’t respond or defend as it is meant to.

I read how MS is called “the nice person” disease… and when I internalize what that really means, I get really sad. That young version of myself disappearing from the scene to find a quiet space to forcefully invalidate her hurt in order to avoid the anxiety of speaking her mind, of standing up for herself. Always agreeable, always insecure and doubtful in herself, looking to other people to tell her what was right and wrong. Looking back has helped me understand how I don’t want to bring that practice forward with me because, truthfully, there is a lot that I’m angry about, that I’m entitled to be angry about.

I’m angry that my dad has MS, I’m angry that I have MS. I’m angry that I felt like I owed people an explanation about what I was going through before I was ready to talk about it. I’m angry at those who made me feel awkward when I did get the courage to share it with them. I’m angry that having MS has felt so isolating. I’m angry that I’m so tired there are days where I can’t get out of bed. I’m angry that on top of navigating all this fatigue and change, I feel a pressure to put on a brave face and still show up the same way as everyone else, like nothing is different. I’m angry that things are different. I’m angry that I have a new lesion on my recent MRI. I’m angry that it’s all happening out of my control.

I get scared to embrace the anger, nervous that if I do, I’ll just stay in it while it slowly morphs into bitterness and resentment. Recently, though, I’ve been reminded that anger has a natural wave to it, coming and going, rising and falling. It doesn’t have to stick around, especially when you see it as something positive – as an inner advocate versus something to fear. I’m learning that anger can be a catalyst for action, a push towards making a change in your environment, a reminder that you have a right to speak up. There are scenarios I’ve had to learn how to view through this lens of opportunity in order to feel permission to even embrace anger. 

Anger towards someone – the person(s) who didn’t show up when I needed them the most, who said my diagnosis was just too hard for them to talk about. Anger was justified, but ultimately, I still needed them. I still wanted them in my life. I could have chosen to harbour it, let it stew until it became resentment, finalizing the relationship then and there. Instead, I called them and told them how hard this has been, how I just needed to talk to them about it but they had made me feel like a burden for something so out of my control. I practiced this conversation in the mirror and with my partner, making sure I could be honest while still accessing the parts of me that are gentle and sincere. In reality, they responded with so much support, thanking me for being honest and letting them know that we were allowed to talk about it, that I actually wanted to talk about it. I learned here that anger can fuel a conversation where you can then address the tension and move forward with lightness, if you choose to approach it with lightness. Anger doesn’t have to be loud and aggressive. It can just be that catalyst, that push to speak up and be heard, to save a relationship before it falls into the vortex of bitterness and unspoken hurt.

Anger towards a situation – my new reality of fatigue, something that I have pushed under the rug for quite a long time. Fatigue from MS is not like regular fatigue I’ve experienced before. It has a weight to it, consuming and unpredictable, often leaving me feeling frustrated that I can’t keep up with life like I once could. I am so tired of feeling fatigued, and all the emotions that come with it: guilt for not finishing my extensive to-do list or for needing to rest, shame for not being as chipper as someone in their twenties ought to be, scared that it won’t be taken seriously because “everyone’s tired!” I feel anger not at anyone in particular, I’m angry that I can’t maintain the same lifestyle (mind you, a perfectionistic and overly-disciplined one) that I have prided myself on my whole life. I’m angry that I have to change and that it will make me uncomfortable. I recently admitted to my therapist that my hesitation with embracing this anger, and why I don’t like admitting it out loud, is because it’s so strong that I fear it could swallow me up. It could push me further into a spiral of resentment towards others who don’t have to balance extreme fatigue with everyday life. It could affirm the shame and guilt I feel, encouraging me to isolate myself even more from the outside world. “Nobody gets me!”, said the bitter and lonely woman. So, my therapist gave me an alternative approach – to visualize anger as actually my inner voice waving a red flag, as a friend pointing out something that feels off. For me, this is much more palatable than seeing it as a fiery force that I need to resist. Sometimes anger towards a situation can push you to the edge where you have no option but to take action, to make a change. Allowing myself to identify this anger I feel towards fatigue and my reality, to name it, as opposed to forever living in fear of acknowledging it, helped me to reach a point of ownership over my circumstances. It helped push me to the next phase of processing: acceptance. I’m angry and I’m tired… so, what am I going to do about it? What can I do about it? I can adjust my lifestyle – prioritize my sleep hygiene; switch up the type of workouts I do; learn my triggers and better understand what activities result in worse fatigue the next day; be kind to myself and encourage guilt-free rest, rewriting those productivity narratives that have me in a chokehold. I can also communicate… I have to communicate – to my partner, to my family, to my boss, to my friends – and do it because it means taking care of myself and this new life that I’m adjusting to.

It’s been hard to admit the things that I’m angry about, but I’m learning that I need to get angry. To be comfortable being angry. To release control over the outcome of my anger. To just let it flow through the natural rhythms of the emotional spectrum like it’s supposed to. To embrace the anger and trust that it has a purpose, that it can actually benefit me. That feels like finally finding balance in life. That feels like a part of my healing.