Learning to Live With Anger
and how it may be a big step in my path to healing
Some people think I am an angry person. Mostly men, if I’m being honest. No one likes an “angry woman”. The thing is, I’m actually not an angry person. I think sometimes people get confused because I am naturally loud, especially when frustrated, or if I’m trying to make a point. I also tend to be hyperbolic in written communication - especially online - and I think this gets misread as anger when really I am just a passionate communicator. I have been reading about Justice Sensitivity - another thing I didn’t know that existed - and while I’m a bit skeptical about this as a concept, I do tend to be more vehement when I feel like something is unfair.
Anger, as I’ve discussed in other posts, is the hardest emotion for me to sit with. I have always been terrified of other people’s anger, and especially my own. Now that I’m in treatment, it’s not as terrifying as it used to be. I know that it won’t entirely consume me, and I’m not misdirecting it all over the place. But it is still deeply uncomfortable. There’s a difference between being mad about something going on in the world, and being mad about things you cannot change.
Right now, I’m angry that I have ADHD. And I’m angry no one noticed. I am angry I went to multiple shrinks and doctors and it was never considered as a possibility. Lately, I wake up every morning and I wish it would go away. I resent it. Whenever I have symptoms (I still have them, they’re just more manageable), I try to laugh about it, but lately they’ve just been pissing me off. I forgot to do something the other day, and it sent me into a mini tantrum, even though it was not remotely a big deal.
I also continue to be angry that so many people misunderstand this disorder. It makes it harder for people to get diagnosed, and the focus tends to be on the more superficial symptoms like lack of focus or hyperactivity. There is the concept of the ADHD iceberg, where the most noticeable symptoms are the least severe, and the real agony exists underneath, invisible to most people.
What lurks underneath is far more complex, and far more devastating. Dr. Russell Barkley - one of the foremost researchers on ADHD - claims that ADHD that persists into adulthood can reduce life expectancy by 12-20 years. TWELVE TO TWENTY YEARS. There are a variety of reasons for this- we are more likely to abuse substances, crash cars, have accidents, and engage in unsafe sex. What is less talked about is that the systemic and cyclical anxiety involved is taxing on the body. I have had a number of ailments and systemic issues that are idiopathic - meaning they have no known cause medically - and right now I am on Xolair injections for a chronic allergic disorder that we’re still figuring out. Since starting ADHD medication, my physical symptoms have abated substantially. I feel physically better than I have in years.
While I am grateful for the relief, it really pisses me off that this thing has been doing untold amounts of damage to my body for decades. I don’t know what the ultimate cost of it will be. Not to mention the fact that I was a smoker, at times a heavy drinker, and a binge eater - in part because I was not treated for this earlier. Would any of these things have still happened if I’d been diagnosed in childhood? Or young adulthood? Hell, at thirty? Am I going to have a shorter life because of cumulative damage from thirty fucking years of cyclical anxiety and inflammation? There is no way to know, and I try to stop myself from heading down that particular rabbit hole. I’d never sleep again if I thought about it too much.
I want to be clear that I do not feel sorry for myself, nor do I feel like I am a victim. I have always vehemently rejected victimhood. It took me nearly 5 years in therapy to even admit that I’d experienced abuse in my childhood. I never wanted to put forward the idea that I have suffered more or less than anyone else. I’ve always been open about my mental health in the hopes it would help someone else, since the openness of others helped me when I was young. Against all odds, I have a good life. I really do. I worked hard for it, but I’ve also been lucky. I recognize my privilege, but also give myself credit for my strength and resilience.
At the end of the day, the thing I am most angry about is that I have never been able to trust joy. When I feel joy, I expect other shoe to drop. This disorder has been a thief of joy, an unwelcome parasite leaching happiness and peace from me and leaving me drained and listless. I’ve always felt like my life was one second away from absolute, annihilating disaster, and that would be my rightful punishment for having anything good in my life.
Fuck that. FUCK. THAT.
Writing about this publicly has been a leap of faith for me. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t still scary, but writing is the way that I cope. I refuse to turn this anger on myself. I refuse to stuff it down, to make it more palatable, to ease anyone’s fear or discomfort. Writing is the way I will honor this anger, acknowledge its existence, and hopefully be able to let it go.
Through honoring this anger, I honor myself. I’m showing up for myself in a way I’ve never been able to before. I want to be able to feel joy without fear, to hold onto it with both hands. I don’t want to miss another moment of my life.
"Who isn't mad? That's how you know you're awake." Fran Lebowitz.