Rage
Lately I've been thinking a lot about 'rage'. It seems to be part of the human condition -- I think everybody must suffer it at some time in their life. It seems to me that it's what we do with our rage that determines our life.
There are people in my life who would deny that they have ever been 'enraged' and yet it is one of the most telling features of their personalities. And just because one seems to be even-tempered does not mean there is no rage -- does it lie there unrecognized? Is it supressed and controlled or directed and managed in some mysterious catharsis that is incomprehensible to others?
I am always leary of people who have modulated and controlled manners of speech -- somehow you can see beneath the facade to the rage underpinning the character. Of course I could be wrong, but I always felt that about Margaret Thatcher's voice ...
Rage is most obvious in children -- the terrible two's, three's and four's! But the manifestation is so different -- some have out of control tantrums, others bully in stealth, some tell tales and some say nothing, prefering to sit out the loud hysteria that quiets and lulls their behaviours but not their psyches. Usually, we calm down for a while, until the onset of puberty, when emotional hell breaks out as we reach for and demand equality with adults, come what may, ready or not!
In general, I feel that my rage has been spent -- burnt out -- doused! Once upon a time I would vent and rant and though my husband can still elicit such behaviour from me from time to time, in general I feel rather 'becalmed' and 'boring'. But there are some people who never recognize or come to terms with their rage at any level. They are the grumpiest of grumpy old men and the grumpiest of grumpy old women. The live long day is a rampage of complaints and diatribes about how badly everything is done and how the solution to all of the ills that engulf them is obvious if only this or that was done. Victor Muldrew is not a fictional character! He is an every man ...
