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Anger Management And Divorce

 
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There were a million reasons not to go through divorce being angry. And another thousand slogans to go with them. Like: Life is too short. Anger consumes valuable energy better spent on productive pursuits.

But none of these did me one bit of good as I churned through the months after my husband moved out with anger pouring out of me like lava from a volcano.

That I was capable of such anger took me by surprise. Who was this angry, bitter person? I wondered. Hadn’t my ex-husband and I resolved, once the divorce became inevitable, that we would do this in the most civil way, and rise above anger or blame?

Yes, but that was before events took over – and everything changed. Once the cruel realities of money, property and child support appeared, with divorce lawyers added to the mix, things took on an ugly urgency.

So to get away from my anger, one gorgeous October when I didn’t have the children I drove to Vermont for an organized bicycling weekend. I decided that God’s green earth and the brilliant autumn foliage, along with all that good exercise, would heal me and rid me of all negative thoughts. The fresh air alone would be medicine for my bedraggled soul.

A group of 18 of us were lodged in the Proctorsville Inn, a picturesque bed and breakfast with fragrant hand-stitched cotton quilts and decades-old country furniture. Dinners would be gorgeous country meals of roast chicken and autumn vegetables, with fresh homemade breads. After breakfast of fresh scones and waffles loaded with fruit and Vermont maple syrup, our guides would send us off on long daily rides, our bicycles packed with maps, clean and filled water bottles, and high energy snacks. It couldn’t have been more perfect.

And I couldn’t have been more miserable.

As usual, most of the group were couples. At my table the first night was also a group of three men – an older man and his two married sons taking a father-son bicycling weekend. Then there was me. Worn, hollow-eyed, and exhausted from the divorce.

I set out alone that first morning, grateful for the chance to take in the quiet. I breathed the clean air deeply, riding alongside wide expanses of rolling green land. My bicycle whooshed through deep woods, shaded with deep greens, rust and gold. It was as peaceable a scene as I could imagine. And in my head, it was still there, like a drumbeat that just wouldn’t stop: I hate him. He wants to destroy me. It went on and on.
I imagined the anger pouring off me like tar, trailing behind in a hot, gluey swath. Vowing to think positive; I tried to imagine the tar of my anger coating the paths beneath me, leaving it smooth for the other bikers. But the more it poured off me, the more my unlimited supply seemed to remain. Had it been real tar, every dirt path in northeastern Vermont would have ended up paved to perfection.

I biked on through the hours and the miles, and the sun rose higher in the sky. By late afternoon, as the sun began cresting toward the horizon, I learned something new: that sometimes there is no escaping from anger. Taking myself to the most peaceful spot on earth could not still the torrents of fear and fury inside me. I was still angry. The only difference was, I was angry with prettier scenery.

There was nothing for me to do with my anger but to let it run its course. By the end of the day’s ride, I gave up trying to think myself out of anger. What I would do with all that still burning anger, I had no idea.
But I learned something else about anger, too. As the sun slipped toward the horizon, with the first hint of autumn chill, a new feeling, a deep sense of grief, was stirred up inside me. I realized then how much easier it is to be angry than to feel the simple, searing pain of regret. Anger was the useful lubricant that salved the underlying wound. This sadness was, after all, really so much worse.

Too tired and sore to bike any further, I flagged down a chase car and bailed out on the day’s ride. Back at the inn, I found the father of the father-son trio, sitting alone in the living room with a bandaged knee and a bowl of pretzels, watching a World Series playoff game on TV. The man had fallen off his bicycle and would not be riding any more that weekend. I joined him with a couple of beers and was surprised to find, after watching the Yankees demolish Detroit, that most miraculously, my mood had lifted after all.

Eventually, of course, the anger and the sadness and all the other miseries of the divorce did go away. But nothing made that happen other than the simple passage of time. Of all the silly, tired old slogans, the only one I did hold on to was: This Too Shall Pass.

And it did.

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Excepted from Happily Ever After Divorce: Notes of a Joyful Journey (Health Communications, Inc. April 2009) by Jessica Bram

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