DMB Digest: How to Quit Rageahol in Ten Short Years
You may remember me from such self help films as "Smoke Yourself Thin!" and "Get Confident, Stupid!"
I’m an opinionated jerk. I know this about myself. I’ve made peace with it. For the most part, I’ve learned how to navigate relationships in a manner to prevent people from flipping me off or running away with their fingers plugging their ears. I still get a bit lathered up from time to time and have to circle back around to comfort the shellshocked in my wake. They are typically the ones rocking themselves in the corner or standing right behind me with a dagger in each hand. So while making nice with the dagger folk typically comes first, repairing things with the shadow-mutterers is more important. They are, after all, the ones more likely to burn my house down after taking back their cherished red stapler.
What’s the secret to being a pompous loudmouth and maintaining friendships at the same time? I realized as a young man, I had to cold-turkey-quit anger. And I’ve consistently committed to this endeavor ever since. While people can say all sorts of colorful things about me without a hint of vindictiveness and be absolutely on target, no one can with a straight face accuse me of being angry or hate-filled. It’s simply not me. At least, not anymore.
As a teen, I fit the stereotype of the angry revolutionary. I hated everyone equally…except for all the hated people. Of course angry revolutionaries have to be careful to not be critical of oppressed minorities. In my mind, people were idiots—blind little minions running around enjoying their beer-binkies and their redneck burp cloths without the mental, emotional, or spiritual capacity to be anything other than their unfortunate selves. The only thing I was consistently grateful for was that I wasn’t one of them.
So what happened? Well, like the young Luke Skywalker, I realized that giving into my hatred would do nothing more than convert a whiney youth into a shriveled old man with lightning coursing from my fingertips to burn and destroy everything within my reach. While the Emperor had a premium black hoodie (I love me a black hoodie), he didn’t really seem to have much else going on. Instead of giving into my anger, I fed my empathy. I focused on the downtrodden, the despised, those I had been tempted to look down on. Those I disagreed with. Those I saw nothing redeemable in. Without exception, I found them to be more appealing than the darkside of myself.
And so anger melted away. What was the point? I could hate them so they could hate me? Any dark thought in them had existed in me first. When did getting angry at another driver on the road ever make me feel more fulfilled, joyous, purposeful, or content? I suppose I could be angry at Californians, or Texans, or immigrants, or hippies, or welfare queens, or drug dealers, or Hummer owners, or Tesla owners, or queers, or Christians, or WASPS, or urban cat ladies. I certainly could be angry at our government officials. But I almost think that gives them more power. It’s like they’re feeding off our enragement, growing stronger, tenting their fingers, and muttering, “excellent.”
Don’t get me wrong, remaining anger-free takes constant vigilance. But it’s possible. Like Homer Simpson, first we have to admit we have a problem: “It's true... I'm a rageaholic! I just can't live without rageahol!” Then you need to stop punching the family cat long enough to think a kind thought about the most pathetic person you can conjure up in your wrinkled, little mind. Now, do this everyday for the rest of your life. It’s just that easy. If an arrogant jackass like me can do it, so can you.
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