ANGER!

And how to suppress it

Written by the Shark Aspect of me who I call Hannibal.

Of course, you’d be angry too, if you were Chris. Born into a precarious world, huge adults carefully doled out the rules of life from an early age – along with the sting of physical pain. They get you to comply through need. The hungry selfish need of ill-considered lust that gave rise to your unexpected conception. The poor hand that nature dealt you. The leeching stage, pregnancy, which burdens every mother to the point of selfless sacrifice. The needy, starving stage of, “feed-me-now” infancy. The constant inadequacy of conscious incompetence, that is childhood in general. There are so many people who can do most, if not all things, better than you can, and so few you can gloat over yourself. Need prevents us from being truly free. While we have needs, we will always be dependant on others to fill them.

We learn from an early age that it is the adults’ needs for satisfaction and power over weaker individuals that really matters. Adults are providers. They give the continuance of life. That provision as Chris learned is subject to conformance in behaviour. A “do-as-you’re-told” world, spinning in a “no-choice” Universe.

This isn’t a case of moving the goalposts of life, more like a complex equation to predict where the goalposts might be at any particular time. The rules are either exactly precise or the whole thing is a wicked and cruel lie. Either the crap they sell you, often completely senseless, has to be the truth, or you’ve been taken for the biggest mug in history.

The things their rules made Chris do. All in the cause of being classified as a, “Good Boy,” a compliant unit. Worthy of having some of HIS needs met. There, there, good boy. Here’s a cold bowl of indifferent recognition.

This deal Chris made, with ‘adults’, was for food, and safety, and education. How betrayed would you feel when those same ‘adults’ chose Chris to be their weaker individual to express their power over. Firmly programmed to do as he was told, he showed him his penis. To shut him up and stop him pleading, He showed him his bottom. Unclear of the purpose and consequence, He knelt down when he was told. To stop him tapping on the wall, He touched himself the way he was told. In order to keep the secret, He let them invade him with fingers. By months end a new ‘adjusted’ agreement was reached with each of them, but complete compliance was still the expected golden rule.

Now he had two lives. Truly a blessed child.

Have you ever been stiffed on a deal? Were you once shafted by some low life? Did some little f***** take you to the cleaners? Have you ever been robbed of something that just can’t be replaced? It’s quite appropriate to be angry – quite normal even. Chris was understandably angry, but he was barred from help by shame. Created by the very rules and precepts of the social icons responsible for supporting the young and the helpless.. The church wouldn’t help him – masturbation was a sin, so he was already a sinner. Homosexuality was a mortal sin – how could he tell them he was being homosexual with men? Chris would count each different man, wondering how many times would put him beyond redemption. How many mortal sins were unforgivable? Since that day, Chris never stopped counting. You might try one day to pin him down on the number. That’s a painful greasy torture he has for himself.

How many s**** anonymous deals are enough to make a body mad? Ten? Twenty? Thirty maybe? How many to make you Angry? Fifty, a hundred maybe?

Where on that scale does Furious lie? At what point do the technicians say, “Livid and rising, Sir!”  At some point, anger becomes incandescent. You want to scream it with every morsel of energy you possess. But you cannot. You already have a deal with Mum to be Good Boy, and good boys don’t get angry, and scream, and sob, and wail with the frozen blasting gale of such an inner winter. Others needed him. So the anger must be contained, become the fuel that drives the endurance until escape was possible. Anger warmed his cold flesh, on toilet floors in the middle of a Yorkshire winter. Anger warmed the flesh around the growing dead spot in his heart. Anger made its presence less noticeable.

All pain is growth, I remind Chris a lot of this basic fact. He’s a bright guy, worries at a problem till he’s ripped it to shreds. That much anger will look for someone to blame. It must. Eventually Chris worked out whom to blame. He knew all along, but was somewhat blind-spotted by his pathetic avoidance of the facts. Chris was the sinner. Chris was the rape victim that really must have loved it so much he went back for more.

I have tried to point out the significance of Christopher’s lifelong occasional nightmare:
 
“Four thousand masturbations and a repeat offender Your Honour. The sin of Fraud, specifically, pretending to be a good boy to his mother, to his own dear MOTHER! ALL THE WHILE, indulging in repeat mortal sin with men. His evil life speaks of his unrepentant defiance. Giving himself, to a hoard. Yes, Your Honour, a Hoard of Men. Guilty of the sin of unworthiness, having been diligently shown the path of righteousness, through suffering and sacrifice, he turns his back on a life of pious hardship, contrary to the expectations of a hundred faithful parishioners and a Saint of a Priest. So many disappointed people. Is there any need to continue? This creature of abject filth. Valueless in his own life, he rejects the values of saviour and sacrifice. There can be no rehabilitation or redemption for those such as this who flagrantly spit on everything we hold to be sacred.”

Incandescent anger, beautiful and pure, directed inwards, is a truly creative infection. Its ability to weave punishment through catastrophe and pain into his life, by means of the most delicate of strategies – is truly a work of art to behold. Its real beauty is that it perversely looks, not for destruction, but perpetual suffering; maintaining him on the knife-edge of lifelong vigilance. That exquisite place of no peace, no sleep, no Love.

Of course, the fraud of his angers work, when finally exposed, will shatter all his defensive illusions. That blow will truly be a Kodak moment will it not? The day the man meets the inevitable pain of insight.

If there are any other questions you need the sharp scalpel of truth applied to, please call again.

Regards Hannibal.

Christopher Davies © 2007