A quick physiology lesson on a woman before her period: progesterone drops; serotonin dips; emotional thresholds lower; unmet expectations land harder.
Admittedly, one out of four of those things is specific to me. Today, for some reason, my anger feels louder. Anger is just extreme hurt in wolf’s clothing, and I’m so tired of being hurt.
I also know my emotions are bigger right now because of the aforementioned physiology. That doesn’t make them less real. It just makes them feel sharper, more urgent, more righteous.
Having awareness, after years of therapy, makes it my job to discern what the anger “means.” To ride it without acting from it.
“Name the sensations,” Brandy would say.
A tight chest.
Buzzing fingertips.
Burning cheeks.
She taught me breathing exercises and recommended certain apps and books to regulate my emotions. Through her, I learned that my anger lives in a basement I rarely go into. We don’t have basements in Florida, after all. Maybe it’s the basement from my childhood. I refuse to enter it in ghost-like conditions and assess it properly, look at all the abandoned artifacts that need tending, sit with the isolation I felt, the grief, the sense of being invisible that I still, somewhat, embody.
Even now, as I write this, I feel the urge to slam the door and run. Running feels good. Amazing, actually. Why spend time sitting in something that brings up pain?
“You don’t have to,” Brandy would say.
She was always so real when she snapped me out of monologues. “So what are you gonna do about it?” she’d ask.
The easiest things can help ground you and regulate yourself. Go outside, even if you only spend two minutes in nature: it sees you better than people do. Put your feet on the floor and feel the ground. Stretch your neck and unclench your damn jaw. Put on a familiar song and let your body come back to you.
But what happens when all of those suggestions still make you bristle? Am I being purposely contrarian?
I avoid anger because my house grew up in it. “Get mad, get glad again” was the way my family gave themselves permission to yell. I hate anger. Maybe that’s the truest thing I’ll say in this whole piece.
I don’t have a great conclusion to this. That was probably it. I’ll get happy as soon as I move my body again. My brain empties and I think I become the wolf intentionally.
Thoughts?