"Do you not know that if you present yourselves to anyone as obedient slaves, you are slaves of the one whom you obey, either of sin, which leads to death, or of obedience, which leads to righteousness?" - The Apostle Paul, Romans 6:16
With my belief that Anger was the only way to survive the adult world came my capitulation, even my encouragement, of his will. When I was 16, I had a part-time job working at an Italian style cafe in the middle of town. It was only a Sunday job- just 6 hours- but like so many jobs in catering, even to a young and unworldly youth like myself, it felt close to exploitation. It was in this setting that Anger began to test the waters, almost without me even recognizing it, as to how much he could get away with. Of course, I don't absolve myself of responsibility; what I'm saying is that I was too naive to realize back then that these actions were leading me down a path that would come to define much of my young life.
The people I worked with there, although nice, were not my friends. I never went out with them, never even accidentally saw any of them outside work. I used to come in, do my shift, get paid very little for such constant and strenuous work, and then hurry out at 4p.m. to get to my kickboxing classes. The anger within me saw an opportunity to start expressing itself in an environment where I would feel very little repercussions (or at least where I wouldn't care so much about the consequences of my actions). At home, I was still liable to righteous scorn or punishment from my parents if I grew too angry and snapped at them. At school, I risked losing friends if I let anger control me too much. But at this place, at this part-time job that I cared little about, anger felt less inhibited. He began small- I used to lie, and say that I'd sprained my foot so that I had an excuse to wear trainers to work. It worked, and I felt smug about it. Then, I used to stroll in at 10:15a.m. (while wearing trainers), rather than at my shift's starting time of 10a.m.. Anger made me do this, too. He reminded me of how hard I worked, how little I was paid, and how small a thing it was.
"If they don't even let you wear trainers", he said "and can't even let you off for being a few minutes late on a Sunday morning, then they don't deserve you!".
Angrily, I wore the trainers as a form of revenge, and turned up late out of spite. This, too, I got away with a couple of times, before my manager pulled me up, and I realized I'd crossed a line. Incidentally, I've been meticulously punctual to everything, especially work, since that day.
The most memorable act of angry rebellion, though, was when I moved the clock forwards by 10 minutes in front of the whole kitchen. I was tired at 3:50p.m., having spent all day around a steaming dishwasher, loading, unloading, stacking plates, collecting dirty plates and cutlery, loading again, non-stop, for 6 hours. I was tired and hot, and I let anger control me. It was a spur of the moment thing- I didn't really plan it... The conditions were perfect for anger to take over. I was exhausted, bored, impatient to leave, and in an impulsive, rebellious mood. In short, I just snapped. I hopped up onto the metal bench to reach the clock and, smiling, flipped it over while still on the bench, and turned the black dials on the back to move the hands. There was a thrill in doing it that I acknowledged I'd been secretly craving, and that was why I was grinning broadly to myself.
As I replaced that clock on the wall, I heard from behind me, "What are you DOING?!". It was one of the girls- a senior of mine. I jumped down again, unashamed and still riding the thrill. I smiled at her as I walked past her, out of the kitchen, and said "I'm going home!". No-one else said anything, and as I turned around to look back into the kitchen and saw the girl climb onto the metal bench to retrieve the clock and set it back to the correct time, I counted it as a victory.
There was, of course, a backlash. As I walked into work the next week in my trainers, I saw my manager and her direct subordinate, a sweet, pretty and gentle blonde girl called Sammy who had always been kind to me, sitting at one of the tables. I went into the locker room to leave my things, and as I walked to the kitchen to start my days work, my manager called me over. My manager, to be fair, was also a fair and patient woman. It was her who had interviewed me for the job and offered me it, and as I stood in front of her, before she even spoke I realized I had hurt her. I felt bad already.
"I hear that you changed the clock at the end of your shift last week?", she said, patiently.
"Yeah...", I said, feeling myself being cornered into shame.
"Why?", she asked.
I couldn't tell her the full truth, because I didn't even know the full truth myself. If she'd been a psychiatrist, and if I'd been the man I am now, we could have delved into the seedlings of anger that were sprouting in my psyche, and who knows if she'd have been able to help me with it. But she wasn't a doctor, and I wasn't a willing patient. She was a busy woman, who needed to squish a rebellion in less than 2 minutes. And so, I gave the most honest answer I could.
"I wanted to leave early".
The truth be told, I thought that was the full truth. I now know that it was just the surface of the truth.
"Well, you can't change the clock. Your shift ends at 4- you have to stay till then".
"OK", I agreed.
"Don't let it happen again, OK?"
"OK, no problem", I conceded. She saw that there was no need to push it further- I had given up the fight. She was merciful to me, and I remain grateful to her for that. I looked at her subordinate Sammy for the first time in the meeting. Her pretty, more striking than average face was framed by long, blonde hair and pulled back into a ponytail. She was about 19, and slightly taller than most girls her age. She had a kind and wise temperament, and I always looked forward to seeing her on Sundays. I gave her what counted as a smile in those days, in the dying days of the new-felt joy within me- a kind of pursing of the lips and cheeks with counted both as a greeting and a sign of resignation- a surrender to the fate that, in a way, I knew was already upon me; that my elated days of post- fear were over, and a new master was establishing himself within me. She smiled back at me, her own lips curtailed by the solemnity of the reprimanding I'd received in her presence. But I could tell that she was good, from the inside out- something which would come to confound me for over 10 years. Anger felt nothing towards her.
This experience was Anger's training ground- it was where he tested his power within me. And, although at times he failed and was embarrassed, he was persistent, and he gained confidence. He found no resistance from me- he merely found a willing slave who was grateful to him for eliminating fear. Anger assessed the situation- looking at my life, he declared; "Open spaces, plentiful lands, and a complacent resistance to my authority. A good place to build an Empire, I think!".
By the age of 17, that tiny spark within the revolution against Fear had worked his way up the ranks, and was now a key figure of the governing forces within me. To me, it appeared that he was delivering on his promise to keep me safe. After all, I was still alive, wasn't I? Any arguments that were made against his one policy of anger were, at first, dismissed. A void, created by a lack of life experience, opened up in my mind every time I was unsure of how to react to a situation, and for lack of a viable alternative reaction, I resorted to being angry. As he quickly developed bravado, though, Anger began to tout the party line. I would come to him sometimes, and show him a flaw in his reasoning. "I was angry, but it didn't work! I didn't get my way. I still felt afraid". Anger was ready for such rebellion from me: "The reason you got hurt" he declared "is because you weren't angry enough". He stated that anger was the only way to right a wrong. He told me about all the heroes he had helped become great- revolutionaries, social reformers- that had all been motivated by his influence. "Without anger", he said, "there is no strength, and without strength, Fear will return". I'm ashamed to say that I didn't argue with his logic. I believed him, and again and again I gave him the authority to dictate my actions.
Half way through my 17th year, it was clear to all around me- friends, family, teachers, my fellow students at the kickboxing classes- that Anger was the new ruler within me. I smiled less, and slowly an aggressive frown, used to ward off potential threats , became my go-to expression. My patience was slowly dismantled. As the months went on, the time it took for Anger to jump in and take control of a situation grew shorter and shorter, until the fuse I was left with was so tiny that it might as well have not been there at all.
I implemented Anger's policy without discretion, or prejudice. No one was safe from it. Worst of all, my anger made me think I was happy. I was "happy" as long as I wasn't scared. And Anger kept fear at bay. Therefore, I allowed my anger to make me content with life. This relationship between Anger and my satisfaction with life brought on bouts of near bi-polar behaviour. I would suddenly react aggressively, angrily, towards a threat from outside. This could be a hurtful comment from a friend, or an unexpected demand from my parents, or something which scared me that I saw on the news. No matter what it was, it almost always came without any prior warning, even to myself. I would lash out at it, giving in to Anger's will, shouting and swearing and gesturing for emphasis until the threat passed, or until it didn't seem so threatening any more. I remember the shocked looks on the faces of my parents at such an extreme reaction- at the confused and upset expressions that my friends were starting to share between themselves over my raging outbursts. Once the threat had passed from my perception, I would calm down, and be free until the next threat appeared.
By the age of 18, I was utterly convinced that anything short of loud and aggressive anger would leave me open, susceptible, vulnerable to the many threats that the world had in its arsenal. In this way, my mind-set hadn't really changed since I was 12. At both ages, 12 and 18, I was very aware of the threats that the world posed towards me. I knew all about the bravado with which they approached me, and the proximity with which they stalked me. The only difference between these two ages was my reaction to them. At twelve, I would cower, and shy away, and hope that they didn't hurt me. I would console myself with the rationale provided by the Empire of Fear. At 18, I would attack them, I would show them that I wasn't afraid, and that I was angry enough to sacrifice a lot to destroy the threat.
By the time I was 18, at around the same time that I earned my black belt, my absolute go-to reaction was "BE ANGRY!". Not only to big things, but to small things as well. Anger had negotiated to extend his rule within me to the tiny trespasses that I experienced each day. And not only to situations that most would deem necessary to be angry at, but to almost every situation imaginable. From mispronounced words to a wrong look from a stranger on the street, to not feeling like I was receiving enough attention from my friends. Anger was my reaction to all of these circumstances, and many many more. Over a period of 6 years, it had gone from being a "necessary evil" to a bad habit to an addiction. I really felt like I couldn't do without it. In this way, it was like a drug to me- something which made me feel satisfied for a little while, which I depended on for these little shots of confidence, but which ultimately I knew was bad for me, and was killing me from the inside. Eventually, Anger would make the step from being an addiction to being a lifestyle choice.
The sacrifices that Anger demanded from me grew steadily with each passing day that was filled with fury. Friends started to notice it more and more, and my parents became increasingly concerned and, no doubt, a little frustrated themselves. As I left school at 18, I went into work as soon as I turned 19.
The fruits of the decision I had made at 16 to let Anger guide me though my adult life were fully apparent for public viewing by the age of 19. They were first part of my daily routine, and then they became part of my personality. But it wasn't until one day, 2 months into my 19th year, when that angry personality would cross the line, and I would fully accept that things had gotten out of hand...
---
The new chain on my right hand was worse than that on my left. It was tighter, thicker, and gave less mobility to my arm. As soon as my captor had left, my first thought had been how I would get any sleep now, seeing as I couldn't even crouch down anymore. I was in a permanent standing position, with my arms pinned at shoulder height against the wall.
I jumped at the slightest of noises- in the darkness, everything seemed more threatening. A rat scuttling away, a drip from some rain leaking in... I even tried to breath quietly, just so I could have some peace from myself...
When I wasn't scared from the presence of tiny noises, I was bored. I had far too many bad things to think about, and far too much time to dwell on them. As I stood there, day in, day out, night in, night out, allowing the chains to take the weight of my arms despite the fact that this offered minimal relief of the strain in my shoulders, I felt myself becoming used to the situation.
"You are a prisoner, now..."... I told myself. "That's just the way it is". I closed my eyes, and tried not to focus on the pain in my legs...
As I stood with my arms outstretched for hours, days at a time completely alone, with my head bowed... my mind started to wander. I allowed it to think back to before my capture, to before the imprisonment I was suffering.
It seemed like such a distant memory, and remembering it was like trying to remember a dream that you had a few days before. There were just glimpses of images that I could see behind my eyelids- flashes of a face, or a feeling I'd once had, or a word from someone I'd known once. But whenever I'd open my eyes, the darkness in front of me, so thick that I couldn't even see the door that I knew must be ahead of me, evaporated all these traces. Every time, when I forced myself to open my eyes, the darkness always won.
I cried out often... but the darkness consumed my voice, too. All I could hear was my own voice echoed back to me. And then silence. A drip. A running rat. The cold, silent blackness that I was in the middle of. I wondered if my captor could hear me, if he was taking joy in hearing me shout out, or whether he was too far away to care. Either way, I never received a response, and those boring, agonising hours multiplied, banded together, to make days and weeks.
My shoulders were in constant pain... adjusting the position of my arms only gave me temporary relief. Often, I would grab onto one of the stones behind my head, using my fingers to relieve the pressure on my shoulders. But their strength was only temporary- a few minutes, at most- and then, despite the pain that I knew would return, I allowed my arms to fall back down, causing the chain to tighten, and my shoulders to return to their state of perpetual agony.
I'm guessing it must have been about 3 weeks after my second chain was attached. I was standing, head bowed, eyes closed, leaning forwards against the chains, my back about a foot from the wall behind me, and my heels fitting neatly into the angle between the wall and the floor. I had just given up trying to sleep, and instead was trying to figure out whether this was a more comfortable position than standing up completely straight, when my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of keys in the door. I straightened up immediately, and waited for the rattling to stop, wondering how I should react to his intimidation. Should I resist? Should I comply? Should I try to fight him off somehow...?
Before I had figured out an answer, the lock clunked, and the door squeaked open. I said nothing, as I heard my captor's footsteps tapping on the floor, getting gradually louder. The door squeaked close again, and lock clunked shut behind him. As I heard his footsteps approach me, I wondered which of my legs he would chain first. I had come to associate his entrances into my cell with another chain being attached.
What I got this time though, as I would see in a few seconds, was far worse...
