Fire, Anger, Sunlight, and Other Methods Of Destruction

Dear Day 76,

I await the sun eagerly on days that are painted with clouds. On days when rain is forecasted, I avoid looking up at the sky. I'm afraid the drab, dreary atmosphere might catch my wandering eye and suck me right up into it. Only under the sun's warmth do I feel a day can truly be good.

"I need the sun," I say, "without it, I am nothing." I've uttered those words about a hundred times in passing, enough to believe them wholeheartedly. Whether that's true or just a belief I hold is not the point. The point is that I hardly ever have a bad day when the sun is out or when it's warm. As long as everything is in its right place, I can't be harmed. 

Warm and wonderful sunlight kisses the leaves on a beautiful spring day. Nothing sinister could be happening here... Right?

Then you came along. The sun in your skies appeared with an air of cruelty, resentment, and rage. As the sun beat down on me yesterday, I was reminded of the way it can cut through the trees and bring a forest to its knees. How quickly its rays can set something ablaze. I felt much like a wild animal, abandoning my home and running as fast as I could back to where it was safe, as fire ravaged my surroundings. Only, I was disoriented in my new environment and unsure of where to go. But I'm healing now! How can my new home be crumbling so quickly? It had felt so sturdy just a few short hours ago. There was nothing to do except keep running, hoping desperately for reprieve. I ran as fast as I could in the direction that felt like my safest option, towards my anger, and then I met you, Day 76, and you asked me to trade places in the sky. You said I should embody the clouds and for my tears to fall like the rain. That following my vulnerable sacrifice, the forest might once again know peace. 

The honeybees continue to pollinate, even under attack.

I grew up in a home that preferred to wield power before love and anger before compromise. I learned to navigate the halls of my home like a trained special agent, walking on my tiptoes to dodge landmines I knew to be hidden in the floorboards. Those landmines are the human equivalent of the sun's anger. It's one of the clearest ways that man mirrors the seemingly senseless cruelty of nature. We reflect it in our anger, resentments, and inability to forgive. I spend much of my time ruminating on the ways I've been wronged. Sometimes, I have so much resentment in my heart that I have no choice but to turn it inwards. It's a battle within me now, fire vs. rain. What's stronger, water or flame? In nature, there is a clear answer. 

Water can subdue the fire, right? It can absorb the heat that surrounds it and neutralize flames. Yet somehow the flames that rage inside of me seem to cut through the dampness, defying the laws of chemistry. It's my first mode of defence. Like a reverse firefighting crew, little spirits inside me stand at the ready with boxes of matches, just waiting to absorb moisture, burn down feelings, and subdue my humanity in search of rage. 

I learned about the power of anger during fights in my childhood home. When my only semblance of autonomy and my only resource was to fight back. I could choose to stand there and listen to it, crumple under my elder's power and fold even further into myself under her insults, or I could learn to yell back. Anger was my number one defender when my room was ransacked and my character was picked apart piece by piece in front of my eyes; I knew I had two options. One was to continue laying in bed and taking it; the other was to yell, scream, and kick up a fuss. I wanted to remind her that I was a person, too, just as capable as she was of wielding power. Even though I had less capital in material things, I had just as much energy inside of me waiting to spill out. She had her words, her evidence, and her reasoning for yelling. She was motivated by my refusal to be the child she wanted and my inability to meet her demands. I only had the way that I felt. I learned to trust my anger above all else. It was the loudest, clearest, most definitive form of protection that I had at my disposal. I wasn't sure where else to turn, who to trust, what to feel, but anger felt right. It was modelled for me; it was inside of me. I began to get high on it. 

In direct defiance of the "therapist" I had in my youth who suggested I should be the bigger person in the face of emotional abuse, I began purposely stepping on landmines. Just the small ones, the ones I knew wouldn't cause too much destruction, but just enough that I could start a fight. I learned to crave it. My strongest, most powerful addiction was anger. I longed for the moments I could let loose. Chaos and destruction bled through my veins. My anger was two times as strong as the visceral experience of my shaking hands, thumping heartbeat and the way my mind would lift out of my body like a helium balloon taking flight in the midst of a fight. The anger was capable of the kind of mass destruction that I longed for. The forest that was my childhood home didn't feel safe. It wasn't somewhere I wanted to stay. I was a wild animal that wanted the flames. I wanted to be forced to run as far as I could, never to return. I wanted to leave nothing but ash and dust in my wake. 

Once, when I was in my teens and lying in bed in defeat after a particularly large blowup, I was visited by a neighbour who'd watched me grow up. I spent much of my childhood riding bikes with her children, accompanying them on camping trips and playing pretend in their backyard. She had an intimate knowledge of who I was and the family dynamics of the house that I lived in, having lived next door to us for years. 

She sat down next to my bed and told me a story. The story of her family. I can't remember the exact details, but I remember this vividly. She said, "What you need to do now is stand up and say, 'fuck this noise.' You need to get angry." 

I wonder sometimes if she knows how much those words propelled me forward, how subdued I had become, how defeated. I wonder if she knows how grateful I am that she showed an interest in me, stuck by me in my darkest moments, and never gave up on me. 

It was a solid plan. Get angry. It worked. I spent the next few years of my life angry. Getting even. Chasing success as a "fuck you" to the people who'd wronged me. I'll show them, I thought. I even found myself grateful that I had such a powerful motivator; only the motivation just lived on the surface; it was cheap. It wasn't mine. I didn't move for me. I didn't live for myself. I just chased a dream of shoving success in the faces of the people who believed I couldn't achieve anything, and I let my anger take the wheel. 

On Day 76, when my vulnerability was supposed to act as the sacrificial lamb that would restore order to the burning earth, I found myself unable to access it, instead adding fuel to the growing fire around me. I was stuck, unable to even run to safety. I woke up in the morning wanting nothing more than to get absolutely obliterated. I dreamt of walking to a liquor store and buying a big bottle of gin, swallowing half the bottle over the course of an hour and entering the realm of oblivion that I'm trying to leave behind. I wanted to escape my life. On Day 76, I hated the idea of all of this soul-searching and healing. I resented the hell out of the idea that I should be grateful. I'm not grateful! 

"Resentment is the 'number one offender.' If I continue to relive my old hurt, it is a resentment and resentment bars the sunlight from my soul. If I continue to relive hurts and hates, I will hurt and hate myself. After years in the dark of resentments, I have found the sunlight. I must let go of resentments; I cannot afford them." 

Daily Reflections. April 14th.

And it's picture-perfect, right? This idea that someday I will be free of my anger. That I'll be free from the constant cycle of resentment and hate. God I hated it all. You were the day of three meetings, Day 76. The day that it took three separate meetings of alcoholics and addicts talking about their shared experience of trying to overcome this beast of addiction to put my head back on straight. At meeting number 2? I wanted to get up and yell. If I'd been asked to share, I think it would've gone a little something like this: 

"Where the hell do you all get off telling people things are going to get better? You want me to shove my anger down, the one thing that's been certain in my life? The one piece of stability, the one feeling I always lean on when I need it? You want me to stop slamming doors and shut down the fucking rage? I hate you. I hate all of you. Congratulations for seeing the light, for finding community, but I am not one of you. I am one of those unfortunates you talk about in your stupid preamble. I won't abandon myself again. I love my anger, and, oh guess what! I still hate all of you." 

I mean, seriously. I was overcome by this urge to just stand up and start screaming. Who the hell do these people think they are? They are telling me to keep coming back. What am I doing in this room? These people are nuts. I'm supposed to look back on my past and no longer feel like a prisoner to it? If I knew how to do that, I wouldn't be here. At meeting number 3, I finally settled. I felt the laughter and the jokes. I listened intently to the powerful stories shared by the speakers that night. I leaned back in my chair and yawned, waving to a girl I knew from my Friday night meeting, and feeling safe and calm for the first time all day. 

Since the beginning of this journey, I've been riding waves of emotion that I've been numb to. I thought I already tackled anger. I spent a day stomping down the alleys behind my apartment to "Killing in The Name" by Rage Against The Machine on repeat, taking a glass dish out of my pocket and smashing it against the concrete. I punched my pillows until my wrists hurt and ran down the street with the power of all the resentment built up inside of me, propelling me forward. I thought, "Okay, check!" That emotion had been crossed off the list. It would never return. 

"If the pain was deep, you will have to let it go many times." 

Yung Pueblo. 

I guess the point is that I was waiting for my honeymoon phase all these days, and with Day 76 came the end of it. I couldn't see it because I was in it. It all felt so linear. I overcome this craving, redirect this mindset, face this emotion, and boom, onto bigger and better things. Turns out that isn't how life works. Turns out I'm not working towards living again, but this is life. Suddenly, all the things that have proven to be valuable tools in quieting the little demon inside of me that craves destruction felt cheap, like lies. Too much effort, minimal results. I knew what would be easier. I knew it would feel warm and fuzzy for a while to just give up and give in. If this is all there is, then what's the point? 

Something I heard yesterday was this. You get to choose what you want to practice. I may not know if letting go of my anger is right. I may not believe that it's safe to feel my feelings. I may not like discomfort. I may not feel connected to the idea of recovery, of asking for help, of finding and building a community built on the idea of bettering ourselves. I may not feel connected to gratitude, always want to participate in my daily rituals or keep the promises I make to myself. I may not want to stay sober. But I can practice. 

I am good at anger. I'm good at avoidance. I'm good at drinking away the days in search of reprieve. I know the ins and outs of destruction. What I haven't practiced is resilience, even though I thought I was. I'm learning now what resilience really means. It means continuing to follow the path you believe could be right, even if it's different, even if it's scary, even if you're so exhausted it feels like you might die along the way. Even if it means losing the only parts of yourself you're certain can "work." I am not good at any of this, but I can practice. Eventually, it stands to reason that this will all feel easier than the alternative one day. One day, I'll be able to step back out into the sun. 

I can start by continuing to show up. By continuing to push forward. Writing and practicing my gratitude, prayer and meditation even when it feels like bullshit. I can continue to move my body and fuel it. I can hear my anger and not become a slave to it. I can drink water even when I hate myself. To say no to picking up a drink even when it feels like the only solution. 

This isn't a journey that can be conquered in a few short months; it isn't a magical, life-altering experience in the way that I thought it would be. However, it will still alter my life. I will get out of it what I put into it. I will get good at what I practice. 

So, Day 76, I'm sorry that I couldn't access the vulnerability when you needed me to. I'm sorry that my anger served as a barrier, and I'm sorry that I listened. I still don't know what's right. What's burying what, or who's killing off who in the land of my emotions. However, I know there were tears I could've cried that I didn't. I know you asked for them and I couldn't provide them. So what I will say is this. I will practice so that if I should meet you again, I may finally be up to the task. 

Love,

Charlotte