Embracing Chaos

I woke up today in a long series of wins, feeling ok. 

There’s nothing spectacular about this notion aside from the fact that I’ve been waking up—for the first time in a long time—with this feeling of ok-ness. Not always happy, but more often than not, at least neutral, like the control over my days has been placed back in my hands.

“Untapped, pure and deep-rooted anger,” that’s how my aunt described the feeling of being near me when I was in the midst of a bout of rage. 

Some of you may be surprised to hear this, and others not so much—depending on when you got to know me—but I’m easily prone to anger. Imagine a cup of coffee with the coffee meeting the brim of the mug evenly; it hasn’t begun to spill over, but if you move at all, it’s going to spill. That’s me. All. The. Time. 

I’m never not on the verge of spilling over. But it’s taken me years even to get this far. 

At my core, I consider myself to be a very relaxed person. But I’m like an onion; I’ve got layers. I appear like a pretty chill person on the surface, but underneath that pure, unadulterated rage, and even deeper, is an even chiller person. You may wonder, after hearing of my chill nature, how’d you get so angry?

Great question, imaginary conversation partner.

Let’s just say I’ve got a mixed bag of abandonment issues and repressed emotions from unintentionally becoming a sounding board/venting place for adults at a very young age and some other fun surprises. Let’s say that people forgetting how old I actually am has been an issue for a while.

So, what did I do? I did all I could. 

To ease these emotions building up without being destructive nor taking it out on anyone else, I used to run to my room, close the door, and beat up my stuffed animals. 

Messed up, right? I used to cry and apologize as I was doing it, too, an unconscious acknowledgment to knowing that something wasn’t right about what I was doing.

As I grew, the aggression became harder to contain. So, I moved from stuffed animals to sports. I became a goalie, and I was pretty good if I do say so myself. Thinking about it now, I think that had something to do with me not really caring about that position's natural consequences. If anything, I craved it. 

Diving at someone’s leg bent and ready to kick didn’t freak me out, not even after it connected with my stomach instead of the ball. I craved distractions, and pain was the only thing within my reach. 

 Soccer didn’t last forever, though (injuries put a stop to that), but my need for release continued. In came tennis, over-exercising, and then fencing. If you’ve read my last post, or any post prior, you’ll know that my more recent switch is crack climbing. 

I wasn’t super cognizant of much, but one thing I knew throughout high school is that I was furious, which was apparently quite obvious. I’ve been told that between my RBF (Resting Bitch Face) and aggressive nature, I became fairly intimidating…I’m not sure how I feel about that now, but it’s what I've been told.

When I moved to Oregon for college, though, I suddenly felt a reprieve, a breath of fresh air, if you will. At first, I thought it was just because I lived with my grandparents, which definitely played a role, but looking back, I think one of the biggest factors was that it was cold. 

If you didn’t know, it is scientifically proven that you’re more easily prone to anger when you're hot. And living in Florida, that’s unavoidable.

So I learned a pretty nifty trick, as long as I stayed cold, I could more easily control my moods, which wasn’t even on the table when I lived in Florida. It was a good coping mechanism, but it was a shit way at facing my anger, which I didn’t, cause avoiding is like a hobby of mine, I’m pretty sure.

As I write this and read it back, it sounds like I’m writing a diary entry for the Incredible Hulk. “Hulk get angry, then Hulk SM-find unhealthy outlet to relieve aggression without hurting other people or things.”

And uh-oh, here comes bad news, good news Chloe to remind you that I don’t live in Oregon anymore. And boy, has it been a struggle! 

Now that I’m no longer there, I’m fighting my ego and my anger at every point on any given day. There’s only so much one can do to curb their aggression without facing it when literally anything can set them off. Chewing too loudly, being too quiet, being too loud, overheating, being too tired, a change in lighting, etc., to name a few. 

Fighting my anger is a constant struggle, and it seems impossible some days to step out of it. To, shake it off, as T-Swift likes to say. My anger feels like a shadow that constantly hovers over me, even when I don’t want it there. 

I hate being angry. It’s exhausting to always be mad. But some days, it feels like there’s no escape.

Everywhere I turn, there’s another door that leads to the same outcome. For years, I just looked for ways to suppress it because I didn’t think it would be possible to rid myself of it. It felt like the shackle had become a part of me, which is such an odd feeling as someone who, at their core, is relaxed and happy. Or, at least, I thought I was at some point.

I’ve so often felt like a piece of me had been hidden or shattered, never to be returned.

But screw that.

If I don’t wake up happy all the time, I get up and try anyway. I throw my headphones on, blast whatever I’m feeling, and dance my way to the kitchen. Is it always genuine? Absolutely not. But the effort is there, and honestly, I’ve begun to see a difference in just that.

I’ve also started to meditate (another thank you to my aunt for that one). So now, every time I feel myself getting dragged away into a negative or troublesome mindset, I pull myself back with a little centering.

Look, I’m not gonna become the next guru, but I have to say it does wonders for the brain. I wish I would’ve listened to my last therapist a year ago. Maybe I would’ve survived the past year a little better. 

So, my resolution for what’s left of 2020 and 2021 is to make anger my bitch. Pardon my french.  

My motivation behind bringing this not-so-pretty piece of myself out into the open and onto the world-wide-web has to do with my return to therapy a little over a month ago.

Since returning, my doctor has provided me with a mysterious and wonderful little homeopathic concoction to help stabilize my moods. And, surprisingly enough, it’s been working. Which, as somebody who’s had very little control from one moment to the next for a few years, or quite possibly my entire life, this is a miracle. 

There are still those moments where I need to quell the rage, but those are usually instances of circumstance and were unavoidable because, let’s be real, I’m no saint.

Here’s my largest takeaway though from this experience, along with why I felt the need to bring this up in such a public format: 

I’m no stranger to being open and honest about my mental health. If you asked me about it, I’d be honest. 

“Hi, my name is Chloé. I’ve been going to therapy on and off since I was 8-years-old. And no, I’m not ‘crazy’—in the derogatory sense—but I do have a lot of issues that I need help working through from time to time.” 

Here’s where an internal contradiction comes into play. Even though I’m completely transparent about my mental health, I’ve formed a nasty habit of lying to myself over the years. So, during those long periods in my life where I woke up sad every single day, I would tell myself, “You’re just sad. You’re not depressed.”

Almost every person I know has battled with depression at one point or another, but for some weird and convoluted reason, I didn’t allow myself to be…even though I was.

So, when I would wake up manic one morning and depressed the following—at a loss for my lack of control—I became totally resistant to any conclusion that suggested my internal chemistry was off. I don’t know if it had anything to do with programmed shame or some other arbitrary reason, but I disdained any solution that involved medication. 

Which now, a month into treatment, I realize how wrong I was. 

I can’t control my internal chemistry. So, those massive highs and lows were the result of something I had no control over. Now, that’s not to say I didn’t have the capability to accept my reality and search for a different solution cause, repeat after me, repression is depression. But there’s something freeing about knowing it wasn’t all in my head. 

Those times where I couldn’t escape my intrusive thoughts or chronic anxiety or bouts of mania or even those explosive bouts of anger, all of these things that felt like they were apart of me were just unwelcome visitors. Don’t get me wrong, I still struggle…a lot; the anger has not disappeared. But over the course of this month, I’ve rediscovered that I’m not my anger or my depression or my anxiety. It’s apart of me, but it’s not me.  

Now, I’m not going to WebMD this. I have no formal diagnosis aside from ADHD that was applied to me at the very hyperactive age of 8 (don’t even get me started on that steroid-fueled nightmare). I just wanted to acknowledge that there’s nothing wrong with struggling. Everyone does it. Ironically enough struggling is not a new fad and, if anything, it’s the most followed fad that nobody talks about.

I will continue to struggle and work through these things until something else comes along to test me in a way I would never even imagine. And, I will continue to do what I’ve always done: find a way to get through it. Not unscathed, of course, but maybe with a few fewer kicks to the stomach. 

At the end of the day, I know that I’m not alone (and neither are you).

If you’ve made it to the end, I’d like to make an arrogant request. Tomorrow morning when you wake up, put your headphones in, blast whatever you’re feeling, and dance your way somewhere. You’ll find me there, too, trying to soak up those moments of peace to enjoy life.