Dance of Anger: A Woman's Guide to Changing the Patterns of Intimate Relationships (13 page)

Karen’s story illustrates how our unconscious fears of destructiveness and of separateness may block us from maintaining our clarity and using our anger as a challenge to take a new position or action on our own behalf. In some instances, however, our problem is not the
fear
of clarity but the
absence
of it. That we are angry is obvious. But we may have little perspective on the “I,” as a result of focusing exclusively on what the
other
person is doing to us. Here is a personal example:

An old saying tells us: “We teach what we most need to learn.” When I was recounting the incident to my friend Marianne Ault-Riché, who conducts anger workshops with me, I was as far from personal clarity as any person could be. Why was I angry? The answer was simple: because my sister was so difficult! She had caused my anger by her opinionated style and by her need to be an expert on all matters. Everything I said to Marianne about my anger was a statement about my sister—not one word about my own self.

Marianne listened and then responded lightly, “I’d love to take your sister shopping along with me! I would have been fascinated to learn about different types of non-stick cookware. Susan is so knowledgeable!”

Marianne was speaking honestly. If she had been in my shoes, her reaction to Susan’s knowledge and personality would have been entirely positive. Indeed, the very qualities that I was criticizing were those that endeared Susan to certain others, my parents included. At that moment, I recognized what is so obvious to me in other people—that my blaming stance was preventing me from gaining an understanding of my heated reaction.

What was it about Susan’s advice-giving and expertise that annoyed me? Why was it a problem for me? What was the pattern in our relationship, and what was my participation in it? Only after I was able to reflect on these questions was I able to tell Susan what was bothering me, without implying that her personality or way of being in the world was at fault.

First, I used my anger as an incentive to sort out what I wanted and then to set a limit with my sister. As Maggie did with her mother, I clarified with Susan that I wanted her advice only when I asked for it. It was understandably difficult for Susan to accept that I would choose to avoid helpful and sound advice, since she herself would welcome it, solicited or not. To help explain the problem that I had receiving her advice, I told her a bit about my experience of being a younger sister:

“You know, Susan, all my life I’ve seen you as a brilliant star. I’ve always looked up to you as the person who had all the answers. I felt you knew everything and could do anything. And I felt I was in a one-down position, like I didn’t have much to teach or to offer you in return. In fact, when I feel intimidated by your brilliance, I react by becoming even less competent.

“Our relationship is very important to me and I’m trying to work on getting things more in balance for myself. What I think will help me is to steer clear of my big sister’s help and advice for a while. I know that may sound silly and ungrateful, because you are so good at being helpful, but that’s what would be most useful to me at this time.”

I was, in fact, asking my sister to make a change in her behavior. However, I was asking her to make a change not because her advice-giving was bad or wrong or excessive but rather because that would be helpful to me, in light of my reactions to big-sisterly advice—reactions for which I took full responsibility.

Sharing my dilemma with Susan (including my envy about her being the brilliant star in the family) was an important step in breaking out of an old overfunctioning-underfunctioning pattern in which Susan was in the role of the competent helper and I in that of the less competent helpee. In the past, the more Susan expressed enough wisdom and competence for the two of us, the more I would react by de-selfing myself into a state of conspicuous fuzzy-headedness. As I verbalized my wish to be able to provide something for my sister (rather than always being on the receiving end of her big-sisterly wisdom), Susan responded by sharing some of
her
problems with me, and it became evident to me, for the first time, that she valued my perspective. Over time, our relationship became more balanced and I no longer felt myself to be at the bottom of the seesaw. Today, I do value her advice—solicited or not—on any number of subjects, non-stick cookware included.

Using our anger as a starting point to become more knowledgeable about the self does not require that we analyze ourselves and provide lengthy psychological explanations of our reactions, as I did with Susan. If I had not identified some long-standing relationship issues, I might simply have told my sister that I didn’t want advice and really wasn’t clear about why. The essential ingredient of this story is that I used my anger to clarify a request based on my own personal wants, and not because I sought to become an uninvited authority on how Susan should best conduct herself.

Anger is a tool for change when it challenges us to become more of an expert on the self and less of an expert on others.

Recently I worked with a woman named Ruth who was furious over her husband’s neglect of his health. He had received poor medical treatment for a serious leg problem that was worsening, and he had no plans to seek further help. Ruth expressed her anger by lecturing him on what he should do for himself and interpreting his feelings and behavior. (“You’re being self-destructive.” “You’re neglecting yourself the way your father did.” “You’re denying your own fears,” etc.) Her husband, in response, adopted an increasingly bland attitude toward his problem (which was understandable, since his wife was voicing enough worry for both of them) and became more dogmatic in his refusal to consider further treatment. It was an escalating circular dance in which Ruth’s “I-know-what’s-best-for-you” attitude only intensified her husband’s willful assertion of his independence on this issue, which led to longer and more frequent lectures on Ruth’s part about what he should do and what he was
really
feeling. Like many women, Ruth was becoming the emotional reactor
for
her man, while he played out the role of the emotional dumbbell.

It was a big step for Ruth to recognize that it was up to her husband to determine his own feelings, to choose his own risks, and to assume the primary responsibility for his own health. This was his job, not hers. But it was equally important for Ruth to take her anger seriously—to use it to clarify, first to herself and then to her husband, that she was unable to live with the status quo and go about business as usual.

Ruth made an important change when she talked to her husband about her own feelings instead of criticizing and instructing him. Ruth’s father had died from a degenerative illness when she was twelve and she now found herself scared of losing her husband as well. Instead of focusing on her husband’s “self-destructiveness” or “neglect,” Ruth was able to request that her husband seek medical help because of her own needs and feelings. She explained that her fears and anxieties were so great that she could not go about her day-to-day activities as if nothing was happening. She did not blame her husband for her reaction, nor did she say that she knew what was best for him. Rather, Ruth was now sharing
her
problem with the situation and asking her husband to respect the intensity of her discomfort. He did agree to go to the doctor, although he made it perfectly clear that he was going for
her
sake, not his own.

When we use our anger to make statements about the self, we assume a position of strength, because no one can argue with our own thoughts and feelings. They may try, but in response, we need not provide logical arguments in our defense. Instead, we can simply say, “Well, it may seem crazy or irrational to you, but this is the way I see it.” Of course, there is never a guarantee that other people will alter their behavior in the way that we want them to. Joan’s story is illustrative.

Joan and Carl had been living together for a year and had maintained their separate friendships with both sexes. They were in agreement that they were committed to monogamy, but did not want to sacrifice the opportunity to have close friends. This informal contract proved to be workable, until Carl began spending time with his young research assistant who was in the process of going through a divorce. In response, Joan found herself feeling jealous, threatened, and angry.

For almost a year the relationship between Carl and his assistant remained the focus of nonproductive fighting. Joan would question whether Carl’s feelings were truly platonic and Carl, in turn, would accuse her of being paranoid and possessive. They had countless intellectual debates regarding boundary issues: Was it appropriate for Carl’s assistant to call him at home in the evening to talk about her divorce? Was it okay for Carl to have dinner with her or just lunch? Joan shifted back and forth between blaming Carl and blaming herself, while nothing was resolved. Her recurrent anger, however, was a strong signal that despite the passage of time, she was not at peace with this relationship.

The turning point came when Joan stopped complaining about Carl’s behavior and stated openly that the situation was not acceptable to her. She did not criticize him for doing something bad or wrong, and she even acknowledged that another woman in her shoes might not complain or might even welcome the opportunity to do the same herself. Joan’s point was simply that she was experiencing more jealousy and anger than she could live with.

When Carl interpreted her reaction as “pathological” and “middle-class,” Joan did not fight or become defensive. Instead she said, “Well, my feelings are my feelings. And I am having such a painful reaction to your relationship with this woman that I want you to end it. It may be ninety-nine percent my problem, but I’m unable to live with it and still feel okay about us. I’m just finding it too difficult.” Joan upheld this position with dignity and firmness.

Joan’s clarity about her emotional anguish forced Carl to clarify his own priorities—and his first priority was not Joan. Carl refused to end his relationship with his research assistant. Joan, after considerable personal turmoil, finally took a bottom-line position and said, “I can’t continue to live with you if you continue in this relationship.” She said this not as a threat or as an attempt at emotional blackmail but rather to share what she was experiencing and declare what was possible for her. Carl didn’t respond and continued on as usual, and Joan requested that he move out. Soon afterward, Carl left Joan entirely and moved in with his research assistant.

Joan suffered a great deal; however, she felt good about the position she had taken. She had lost Carl, but she had saved her dignity and self-respect. Did she do the right thing? Joan did the right thing for Joan, but some of us in her place might have chosen to do something different—or not have known what to do at all.

In using our anger as a guide to determining our innermost needs, values, and priorities, we should not be distressed if we discover just how unclear we are. If we feel chronically angry or bitter in an important relationship, this is a signal that too much of the self has been compromised and we are uncertain about what new position to take or what options we have available to us. To recognize our lack of clarity is not a weakness but an opportunity, a challenge, and a strength.

There is no reason why women
should
be clear about the “I.” “Who am I?” “What do I want?” “What do I deserve?” These are questions that we all struggle with—and for good reason. For too long, we have been encouraged
not
to question but to accept other-defined notions of our “true nature,” our “appropriate place,” our “maternal responsibilities,” our “feminine role,” and so forth. Or we have been taught to substitute other questions: “How can I please others?” “How can I win love and approval?” “How can I keep the peace?” We suffer most when we fail to grapple with the “Who am I?” questions and when we deny feeling the anger that signals that such questions are there for us to consider.