Professor
Blinded
by Anger:
Will Rogers once said “People
who fly into a rage always make a bad landing.” One thing I have discovered
about anger is that it finds ways to control even the most levelheaded individual.
When I was younger, I mimicked the habits my parents displayed regarding anger;
I held it in until I could hold it no more. This led to the anger pouring out
and controlling my emotions and actions, to the point where often I would be
amazed I was capable of doing such. Realizing your will is no longer your own
is the first step in cutting the strings from this invisible puppeteer 13113x2319n .
Sometimes however, the realization that your anger is indeed blinding you does
not come from personal insight, but an unfortunate event which forces one into
understanding that the hold needs to be broken.
Adolescence in my household was full of the
horror “stories” that my parents probably told to their friends just to show
how bad they had it with their teenager at home. I say, “stories” because my
very conservative parents had a convoluted view on what growing up in a country
outside of India was like. The changes that I went through were not drastic in
my eyes, but to my homely parents, they were outrageous. In a matter of years I
had gone from a child that spent the majority of his time outside of school
with his parents, to one that wanted to go right back out again the second he
set foot in the house. On more than one occasion I was told that I “treat the
house like a motel, coming home only to shower and sleep.” This truly was not
the case, but to my parents staying out later than eight in the evening two
days a week was one day too many.
The
conflicting views I had with my parents often frustrated me and I chose to act
out, which was a poor choice. As I looked around at my friends and saw the
social lives they were having, I often grew furious. My best friends would get
together to play video games, but my parents refused to give me permission to do
the same. I did not understand why I could not walk three houses down just to
spend time with people who I grew up with. Having simple requests denied for so
long, eventually led me to rebel. I began to leave without saying a word and stopped
caring about the trouble I would get in at home once i got back. This way, I figured,
they would yell at me and leave me alone for the rest of the day. When they did
try to talk to me, I did what a typical teenager would do when he or she didn’t
get what they wanted; I would slam my door and stomp around my room, wanting to
be left alone. In a rage I’d throw books, blare music, and even punch the walls
just to take out the anger. I should have understood the signs when I looked at
my wall one day and realized I had punched through it.
Perhaps it was clich ©, but the biggest symbol
of my rebellion was the motorcycle I purchased my junior year in high school.
My parents, if they were not before, were more furious than ever when I came
home with it. To them, I had gone over the top. To me however, I had found my
independence. It was something that they had no control over because it was
mine. It aided me, at least in my mind, in showing my parents that I could take
care of myself. The motorcycle was old, a blue 1973 Yamaha TX500 with white
accents. It constantly refused to turn over, the electric starter would
constantly fail, and the kick-start was not dependable. There were times I
wanted to kick it over because it had frustrated me so. The difference though,
was with a little bit of work; I was able to fix the problems, something that I
had never been able to do with my parents. With time, I began to understand it,
work with it, and even began to consider it a reflection of myself.
Things
with my parents however, did not get better. Arguments would constantly break
out, and I felt more anger than ever. The main reason for this was because I
had become defensive about the motorcycle, and it was a daily thing my parents
would lecture me about. Towards the middle of junior year I got into a ferocious
argument with them and found myself in that same mood as when I saw my fist go
through the drywall of my room. I left in the midst of the yelling to the
garage, turned the ignition of the motorcycle, and raced out of the
neighborhood. Through the rage, I blindly sped through the streets until I
reached unfamiliar back roads. I pushed on in an attempt to just take myself
further away. Focused by anger, I attempted to increase the space between me
and home, so much so that I did not notice the road curving to the right. Even
the thought of slowing down failed to cross my mind as I flew forward. The
front wheel hit the curb on the opposite side of the street, and the back wheel
came up over me. The motorcycle somersaulted, and I rolled along with it into
the field. My back hit the ground, which caused me to release the handlebars. I
landed flat on my back, with a first row seat of the motorcycle flipping into
the air and crashing to the ground. Somehow not hurt I stood up, walked past
the scattered wreckage over to what I had focused my life on, realizing what I
had done.
The
bouts of anger that erupted from me, and even the damage I caused at home,
should have been enough for me to realize that I was not in control of myself
when I was angry. It took the destruction of something that I cared about for
my eyes to open and realize that the actions I had taken were destructive. This
wreck caused me to reflect on myself, and even to present day I find myself
thinking about the things that crossed my mind as I stood there. I realized
that when I let anger take over, I could think nothing else. My senses were
gone and my mind would flood with rage. Drawing from this experience, I have
learned to deal with my anger. When something frustrates me with my parents, I
sit them down and let them know. Doing so has taken a positive turn with my
parents because it seems as if they understand my side of the argument now. The
realization I had that day has ultimately changed me, and luckily it was just a
motorcycle that was wrecked, because I believe if I had followed the destructive
path I had been on, so would have been the relationship with my parents.