What If I Could Be A Little Less Angry?

If you are married, in a relationship, or have kids, I know you will relate to this scenario that has played out in our home more times than I would like to admit: the kids are in bed, we are both tired, and for a reason that probably neither of us can remember, our short fuses have turned on each other. Anger is normal, but it feels so gross. Anger itself is not the problem- the problem is me; me and my inability to manage anger effectively.

More and more lately, in the middle of a fight with Shawn, I will be interrupted by this jarring thought that overwhelms me. It’s like I am suddenly a fly on the wall and I have clear vision over the whole situation. This annoying, yet profound thought only seems to show up when I am at my most mad; when I want to scream or throw his dirty gym shorts at him.

Through what I can only assume is through the Holy Spirit, the anger glasses lift off of my eyes for 15 seconds and the only thing I can think is, “Why am I doing this?”

For those few seconds, I can see the situation at the macro level, lifted out of the weeds of my fury and brainstorming of brilliant comebacks (if I do say so myself). I consider for the first time that night, it would be so much more fun if we were watching a show and laughing or having sex, or maybe even doing our taxes. This is dumb. I’m not actually stuck in this argument, committed to riding it out until I see victory. 

You have the power to end this Kristen, I think to myself. Just soften and apologize. 

Then I willfully put those anger glasses back on and continue to the battle of attempting to wear him down for me to be right. Y’all. That is so ugly and embarrassing to admit that even after God so mercifully intervenes with the Holy Spirit, reminding me how the conflict can end, too often I still choose my flesh and the immaturity of being right. The thought of “giving up” or anything close to “admitting he is right” is so scary, feels incredibly cold and naked as I am surrendering control, I quickly dismiss it as momentary insanity. The fear of recurring pain, not punching my way to a place of perceived victory and perceived safety wins out as I let the fighting continue.

It can feel almost physically painful for me to choose peace. I am an enneagram 8, the Challenger. I never saw reconciliation or compromise or humility modeled in my house growing up. In my chaotic house, I grew up 10X faster than a child should and took on the role of protector, caregiver, and decision-maker. I spent decades in fight or flight and have practiced the heck out of taking a stand and defending it at all costs. My choices were to either muster the strength and fortitude to plow through, or stay lost in the overgrown field, exhausting myself by running in circles and never really finding a way out. If I were to take off my heavy protective gear, it meant risking the elements. Winters were harsh and summers would burn; the small reprieve of the constant weight just wasn’t worth the risk. So, I keep my head up, imagining the blue sky of emotional freedom I would get to one day. Even if I couldn’t see any glimpses of the sky in the moment, I would put one foot in front of the other. Never stop moving was my mantra, even if people around me were bumped into, didn’t understand my motivation to march, or didn’t care to get up from their comfy place in the field and get curious about my rhythm. It’s funny the way feelings that started so long ago seem to sneak right into marriage with you. (That and the 47 race t-shirts Shawn accumulated before we got married- those bad boys snuck right in and don’t die easily either.)

The journey through the field of chaos and emotional pain became familiar. I didn’t know anything else. Learning to walk on the open shores of the beach, where there isn’t anything to hide me, where nothing exists for me to push and battle my way through, has been incredibly vulnerable, uncomfortable, and confusing at times. Shawn is like the tide to my shore. The tide wades in and it wades out. The noise calms me, and I feel this passionate sense of connection to God through His goodness of this earthly gift. Steady, reliable, beautiful. 

More often now, I take the Holy Spirit up on his offer of peace and I follow his lead. I take a breath. I calm my tone, wrack my brain for what the next, more productive, step should be, what concessions I can force myself to make in the name of our marriage. In the name of a peaceful household. In the name of giving our kids an atmosphere that is mostly light-hearted, graceful, and secure- teach them what forgiveness looks like. In the name of never taking for granted the profound gift of the tide.

Humility, patience, forgiveness, compromise- all totally underdeveloped muscles of mine. I see how attractive these muscles look on other people -how sexy my husband is when he is flexing these muscles- and I am motivated to grow some myself. When I look in the funhouse mirror and recognize just how tiny my muscles are now, and the disparity between where I am and where I want to be, I see the work that lies ahead of me. 

So lately when I feel the fire building in my belly, I get laser-focused on what it feels like to have no fire- not even embers still burning in the ash. The sound, the smells, the touch of the tide. Then I work backwards: what does he need? What fears, insecurities, or frustrations are fueling his fire and which painful memories or fears are fueling mine? How do I reassure him to calm the fear that is hiding or recognize my trauma showing up as a means to hose down this fire? Its hard work. It’s worth it. A safe, secure, fire free house is worth the effort. A pure, lighthearted marriage is worth the pain and vulnerability risk and effort. 

If you become angry, do not let your anger lead you into sin, and do not stay angry all day. Ephesians 4:26

I’ve worked so hard to get out of the field, but that doesn’t mean the brush that is left behind can’t quickly catch on fire and effect me just as harshly. I may always have to redirect my face and my focus to the tide when I start to stare at the field and get angry at it’s existence. I definitely don’t have this mastered, and I may never, but that won’t stop me from trying. 

In case you can relate to these feelings and reactions more than you would like, here are a couple of things I do that are making are difference for me:

1) Journal. I tend to think I know how I feel right away, but it turns out when I write about it God shows me so many things I couldn’t see before.

2) Give him a hot second. Everyone processes differently and I know that my husband needs a minute.

3) Keep the end in mind. What do I really want and what is the most loving way to get there (sometimes not the fastest).

4) Call someone older, wiser, and more experienced in marriage than me to give me perspective. (Has to be someone who would tell you there is lipstick on your teeth, your outfit isn’t flattering and girl, your point of view on this one is bananas.)