Anger Management

This man looks how mothballs smell.

If you could see him, you’d understand.

They told me it would be “zen”. At best, the room reminds me of one big dusty book. It may hold treasure for someone. It’s just not me. Mr. Rowling was the embodiment of what I imagined an appropriate middle aged father was supposed to act like. Maybe I dodged a bullet there.

Mom never comes in.

If the floor is lava than the counselor's office is the volcano. It’d take a court summons to order her to talk to a shrink. She’s likely ventured off into one of the local shops. Pretending she leads a seemingly normal life I suppose. Maybe she’s making a hair appointment for the next time we’re obligated to be here. Or maybe she’s at the pub. I couldn’t blame her if she was enjoying an afternoon Budweiser.

Unfortunately, I’ll never know.

Perplexing as it is, neither of us can talk to the other one. Not even about how we spent our afternoon.

Shit.

Which brings me back to this bare bones chair bullshit. I’m to do 8 sessions with Mr. Rowling. 60 minutes each. “Anger management”, they call it. I’m 14 and I tend to think I’m fairly average. The puberty stricken boys I see putting dents in the school lockers are a far cry from my situation. Nonetheless, I am here. I am unable to tell you what it feels like to be "a little" mad. My emotions work as if controlled by a light switch. I'm either fine or I'm out of control. I once spilled a container of thumbtacks and got as angry at myself as I did when I blew the transmission on my first SUV. If I'm under the impression that there are Doritos in my cupboard, then realize that there in fact are none, there's a high probability I'll be as sad as I was at my cat's funeral.



In other words, my reactions aren't proportionate to the things I'm reacting to.

It's something I've been working on...



“It’s like hammering a square peg into a round hole every single day,” I say.

“I just want to know who I am.”



“No one knows who they are Samantha. Adults 5 times your age are still figuring out who they are. It's part of the process. Feeling enraged at the fact that you haven’t grown into your persona yet is unfair to those around you. And wrong to expect at a mere 14,” he scolds.

He doesn’t get it. The expensive paper hanging on the wall is supposed to be proof of his excellence in this field and show how qualified he is to handle little hiccups like me. And he literally doesn’t get it.

I can feel my cheeks going red.

The sheer frustration of knowing exactly what’s going on, while everyone else refuses to acknowledge you...

You’d get aggravated from time to time too.



Mom was late to pick me up. Against the protest of the lady at the desk, I swing the exit door and walk myself out. I don’t need to look back to see the expression on her face. I can feel her judgement. She’s wrong too.

Mom finds me a few doors down sitting on the large stone steps of the library. I secretly find myself hoping that the secretary is still watching; In awe of the fact that I wasn’t caught rolling joints or smoking crack. There’s no conversation on the ride home. I’ll run a mile, bike a mile and eat a bag of Banquet chicken tenders. I couldn’t even guess what the calorie count is on a bag of those suckers and truthfully I couldn't care less.



Fast forward a decade.

Work has brought me to Mr. Rowling’s doorstep. I recognize the name on the mailbox.

I want so badly for him to appear. For him to remember my face and my struggle that he could never solve.

I want to tell him that I’ve found all of the answers and that I was right all along. I need to tell him about the eyes I’ve looked into and the pieces of soul I’ve replaced. The places I’ve traveled and the love I have found. The searching I did for the answers I've sought. That he was ignorant in his old age and that my youthful self was justified in her quest....


I set down the large package and get on with my job.
Maybe he doesn’t deserve to know. For him, I was just a folder. This is my life.

Trying to make sense of other people's responses to us is a basic human activity. Accepting anyone's anger by concluding that it is justified, is a way of making sense of a difficult relationship.
But, this acceptance comes at a great cost.