Temper Tantrums

I have been thinking about temper tantrums, and when the last time I had one. Well, perhaps not the last time I exhibited my little girl outburst, but when it was publicly noticeable I was in a raging frenzie.

Truth is, I must have blocked those displays of childish behavior from my conscious mind, because I don’t remember any such fits of dissatisfaction in several years.

That ability to misremember or deny I ever had one is not healthy. I think it is important to express one’s unhappiness, or at least acknowledge my feeling so I could understand what makes me feel powerless.

As I have mentioned in earlier columns, my mother broke me of the habit of holding my breath when I was being crabby by tossing water in face. I would immediately take a deep and shocking breath, and begin crying, no doubt. This too is beyond my memory reservoir, but Mother did mention her effective method in my teen years when I got a bit pouty.

So, I’m left with the questions of what sets me off like a rocket, why don’t I remember those incidents, and do I have deep psychological damage from not recalling those ravings? 

There is something abnormal if one lives without upsets or denies being out of sorts to the point of doing damage to something or someone, or at least wanting to do said damage.

I know when I get really upset, meaning mad at hell, I cry, and then cling to the belief I’m over the anger, while not letting go of the hostility toward the someone or something that brought on the tears. 

I believe it would be better to scream or pant or run or all of the above in order to get that emotional upheaval out of my system.

As pre-teens, my parents bought my younger sister and me boxing gloves and built a makeshift boxing ring in the basement to use at night when they got home from work. If we became angry at each other during the day we could work out our aggression under supervised conditions.  I learned quickly this was not a good solution for me, because being short on memory, I would forget about our previous feud, but my sis did not. Thus, she was always the victor. We learned to settle our differences in other ways that did not include physical brutality…like not playing together, threatening to tell our folks what the other did, or ignoring the other.

Now, at 82, I don’t know if I’m more mature about my displays of anger, or if I’m too lazy to exert myself to become emotionally embroiled in controversy. I hope it is maturity and common sense that rules the day and hampers my angry outbursts. But, I’m fearful it is laziness and my shortage of being able to remember what tweaked that anger button.

Happily, I’m glad few things kindle a fiery retort or action from me. There are advantages to getting old: knowing when you can win and when you can’t, and not having the energy to waste on something other than securing food and remaining upright while walking the cobbled streets of San Miguel.

Old is good.