Physical and emotional responses

Last night was an interesting experience. I've been working some gruelling shifts and an issue has cropped up at work which has been causing me some concern. I won't go into details as this might compromise confidentialities and besides, it would be irrelevant. However, I had been nursing my concerns when a team-leader had made a decision that had not been thoroughly thought through, resulting in a near-miss incident. I am forever making ill-conceived decisions but I tend to be very intolerant when others do the same. I reacted with disproportionate anger.

This was clearly an example of my residual anger breaching the 'flood defenses'.

Last night I was itching again and tapped on the itch (but not the specific area of my anatomy that was itching...... I've learned that lesson). I think it was four, maybe five rounds before I got rid of the itch. Anne was tapping with me.

"Right." says Anne "I think we better address the nitty-gritty now, don't you?" She was referring to the anger and she was right. I was assuming the root cause of my anger was the episode with Gloucester Social Services. The department had put someone in a serious situation, had cost me my job, my house (as a result of losing my job) and, for a period during the six months I was suspended, a degree of my sanity. It seemed enough for that to be the root cause.

Half way through the second round, it occurred to me that the individuals who had cobbled together the 'kangaroo-court' that saw me silenced and dismissed were just human beings protecting their interests. I quickly realised that I didn't want to confront them and tell them what I thought. I wouldn't invite them to spend Christmas with me but I didn't particularly want to see heads roll. I didn't need to confront them with the truth of the matter because they knew the truth of the matter. It occurred to me that I had resolved this anger. Surely tapping couldn't work that fast, could it?

Well, no. Or rather, I don't know but it hadn't worked that fast on this occasion. I was simply barking up the wrong tree.

My residual anger was well established at the time of the incident with Social Services; hence me blowing my top, phoning the Director of Social Services and telling him that, if anything should happen to the patient or a member of the public as a result of their incompetence, I'd be discussing the situation with the press. I was effectively wrecking my career in a temper tantrum. There were a number of rational approaches I could have taken to address the issue effectively and appropriately. But I'd chosen to throw the baby out with the bath-water.

As always with such issues, the root causes go way back. What do I first recall being angry about? I was pretty angry as a child and I think I need to lay down some of the background here.

My mother had very fixed ideas of how things should be and was very intolerant of any deviations from her rather narrow concepts. She had married a man she could control (my father was possibly the least assertive man I ever knew) and had decided early on that one should have two children: one boy and one girl. Her firstborn (a boy) died of diptheria in infancy. My brother was born a few years later so she had her son. I was born seven years later.

My earliest recollection of feeling inadequate was being told by my mother that she had "prayed to God for two children: a little boy and a little girl." then, with a forced and exaggerated expression of affected joy, she added ".... and the Good Lord sent me two lovely boys."

She had a way of delivering a smack-in-the-face in such a way that she could never be accused of it. She was outwardly telling me how lucky she was to have her "two lovely boys" but the subliminal message was that I had somehow fucked up her plans.

This kind of put-down was a recurring feature of my childhood. If I was hit or bullied by other children, she would outwardly sypathise and comfort me with such assurances that they [the bullies] should have known that I can't stand up for myself and they shouldn't pick on weaker children. If I stood up for myself, she would point out that violence is never a solution to anything and I should have walked away. If I walked away, she would suggest that they'll never leave me alone unless I stand up for myself. I got the overall message early on: if I did it, it was wrong.

I've been drawing for as long as I can remember. When my mother first noticed I had a talent for it, she decided to 'nurture' this talent by teaching me to draw (despite the fact that she didn't possess this ability herself). She went through a phase of telling me (not showing me of course) how a drawing should be constructed and, needless to say, none of my attempts achieved the standards she was trying to set. She eventually gave up declaring that I "wouldn't be told" and that I "never listen".

How come I didn't grow up to be a transvestite with an inferiority complex I'll never know. Something in my genetic makeup made me respond with anger. I think maybe I inherited her intrinsic concept of the self always being right and any disagreement must be wrong. I didn't try to fulfill her impossible ideals, not because I didn't feel I was up to it but because I felt I was right and she was wrong. Consequently, we were always at loggerheads.

Also my father was a valuable, though inverse role-model. He was an example of what happens when one tries to keep the peace and give in to her. Everything he did was wrong in her eyes and so he embraced that identity: "Oh well, you know me. I bugger everything up". I didn't want to live like that. Surrender was Dad's coping strategy, anger was mine.

Even up until her death, I could never talk to my mother about anything that moved me or interested me. She would always change the subject by saying: "Let's talk about something nice" as if I'd been talking about sado-masochism or vivisection. Usually, I'd be talking about music or art or how I feel about something or other.

You might get the impression that I detested my mother but I didn't. There were many, many things I detested about her but I still loved her. Such is the unfathomable complexity of emotion. I had long ago stopped wanting to please her but I had never actively wanted to displease her. From adolescence onward, I simply went my way in life. I kept her informed about what I was doing or planning but didn't seek her approval or pay any mind to her inevitable disapproval.

Consequently, the anger went underground. It was pointless ever trying to confront my mother as she was unable to take on board the possibility that she may have been wrong about some things. I would never get my 'day-in-court' in that respect so I just carried on allowing her to be as she was while I continued to be as I was.

Whereas anger was initially my coping strategy for combating the destructive elements of my mother's nature, humour has always been my coping strategy for dealing with the anger. I think, without either of these and definitely without both, I would have been a mess.

As it is, I have been extremely lucky to have effective coping strategies that work to keep things in perspective. However, I do need to deal with this anger.

I know I have inherited certain negative traits from my mother such as my intolerance of anything that disagrees with my own views. However, I try to balance this with reason (not always successfully). I grew up learning to cope with always being wrong so, when I realise that I am wrong, it's no big deal. However, it can take an awful lot of insisting that I'm right before I arrive at this conclusion.

This could be the old procrastination rearing its head (or rather, planning to rear its head as soon as the time is right) again but I think I need to put aside the time to address this. It could raise emotions that I'm going to need time to work through.