The whole bike ride from work I could feel something powerful. A slow warmth seemed to spread the faster I pedaled. I was listening to my regular music and podcasts and nothing obvious was instigating this sensation. Ironically, the harder I pushed myself on the bike path the more intense the warmth became. This surge of powerful energy kept rising. I didn’t think much about it, as I notice some version of this on most Fridays. I was forward thinking to the burrito I would purchase and the Doctor Who I was going to watch. These are exciting thoughts to me. But this time the energy was more intense than usual.

By the time I got to my condo building, I was  exhausted. I paused for a few seconds at the bottom of the back stairwell soaking wet. Then I hoisted the bike on my shoulders and climbed four flights. I arrived at the top and dropped the bike down with a bang against the wooden deck. Took off my helmet, released the dog, scratched the cat, and stood in the kitchen dripping and breathing hard.

Then I realized – this intense feeling was anger!

I wasn’t just a little fired up like when I find my cat has peed on clothing I left on my bedroom floor. No, I was seeing red. Energy was bursting through my wrists and I wanted to destroy stuff. Which is kind of a cool feeling, by the way. It’s powerful and masculine and if you start shadowboxing the air, will definitely be impressive to any nearby females. I’ve had three fall to their knees and clutch my shins in admiration just this month!

Note – As I reread that last sentence I see how it may be misinterpreted as hanky panky. God, the expression “hanky panky” is funny. Good song, too. Also, it should be noted for my girlfriend that no ladies approach and fall to the knees grabbing at me for protection. No dudes, either.

I couldn’t believe it but my body had switched from exhausted to energized. Since I’ve been learning how to sit with feelings I used to run from, what occurred to me was to stay present with the anger. I quickly tried to figure out what I was angry about and nothing came. There wasn’t any obvious event that had transpired to push my buttons. This made it easier to stay with the anger. If I realize I’m going to punch a hole in the drywall because I miscalculated the number of Fresca’s left in the ‘fridge, well, that seems a little extreme. I talk myself down from that sort of nonsense.

I decided to roll with this madness and have some fun.  I stomped around the house, tossed a few hard punches in the air, and even screamed like a rabid animal. All of this was done within thirty seconds. Then the anger went away.

I examined what had happened to locate any meaning and found nothing. That was even more exciting to me. My body got angry for no obvious reason and I went with it! Then it went away! And I hung in there with it and didn’t shame myself for feeling it! I have probably done this a total of seven times in my life. I’m not used to handling tough feelings.

Anger is incredibly important to my well-being. I never learned growing up how to experience it without shaming myself. While anger is normal, it’s rarely logical. Even when I know why I’m angry, it always seems to be an  overreaction. And many times it is. But anger is used to effectively defend emotional and physical boundaries, and it works well. Like any other muscle, however, it needs practice.

What I have found is that feelings come and go in a beautiful and and random dance. Sometimes sadness overwhelms. Or fear. Shame knocks me to the ground. Anger makes me want to kill the world. All of these are normal instances. Learning how to stay with them and not run is the tricky part.

I’ve been afraid of my anger because I assume I’m going to hurt something or somebody. Except I never actually have. By letting it run its short course, I find that it processes quickly and then disappears into the ether.

So, I’m encouraging you to help me get more practice with anger. Call me the c-word. Tell me my beautiful hair is effeminate. Make fun of my lame author photo where I’m obviously trying to look tough. Tell me how cool it is that you think I live in and write about Paris, France. Do your worst!

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In my condo I have bay windows in the family room. My windows look out over a courtyard and also across the way at my neighbor’s unit. Since there’s only thirty-three units in the building we all sort of know each other. If you don’t know somebody’s first name you certainly know their face.

I actually haven’t formally met the owner of that unit. I think he just recently bought it, or maybe he was renting it out the first six years. Either way, he’s in there now. I can tell just by looking at him that he’s a nice guy.

Even though we’re told not to judge someone on their looks, can’t we tell, most of the time, whether somebody sucks or not based solely on their looks? I definitely can. People that suck look like they suck.

Well, tonight I am writing this post from my bedroom.  So, why am I not in my family room, the preferred place of writing?

Because my neighbor is having a party on his porch. We have these huge wooden decks (never figured out the difference between porches and decks) that you probably associate with Chicago. They’re 10’x20′. He’s got fifteen guys sitting on his porch having cocktails and talking.

My plan tonight was to sit at my coffee table and write. What I mean by this is to literally sit on the floor with my back against the  couch and legs under the table, with the laptop on top. It’s very comfortable to me, but I’m sure it looks completely stupid to anyone else.

The truth is that I don’t want these fifteen guys seeing me do this. Okay, fine, so I just won’t write. I just ordered a video game and I’ll play that. No, I don’t want them to see an adult playing a video game. Fine, I’ll watch Doctor Who. No, I don’t want them to see me alone on a Saturday night watching television.

I know this is a shame thing. By thinking they’re looking at me (they’re not), I assume they’re judging me (they’re not) and that somehow shames me for not doing more responsible “adult” activities. It also must mean that I have no friends (I have friends). So, I am self-banished to my room because I don’t want them to see the real me. In a way it’s kind of funny – I sent myself to my room because I’ve been bad.

And I’m just waiting for them to go out for the evening. Now, I have big curtains, and technically I could close them on the guys. But I would feel like a dick doing that, and I wouldn’t want them to think I was pissed at them.

So, I won’t shut the blinds. I can’t stay there because I don’t want them to see me. I’m in my room.

I’m thirty-six years old and not socially awkward. I’m 100% convinced I could go over and hang out with these men. They appear to  be friendly dudes. But I won’t go.

This only happens like twice a year, so I’m not constantly removing myself from view, but it is indicative of my self-judgment. I can’t wait until I can just think, “Oh yeah, I guess there are a bunch of people over there partying. Good for them. Hey, that sexy Cinemax movie is coming on – let’s peel down to my skivvies and flip it on!”

Okay, I went too far there. I just wanted to say “skivvies.”

So, I’m going to do something courageous (at least to me). I’m about done writing. I’m going to head into my family room, turn the lights on, and start playing my video game in full view of the party. And everything will be okay and nobody will point and laugh. I’ll be uncomfortable but I’ll forget they’re there after an hour or so.

Oh, and nobody tweet me during the Cinemax movie that comes on at 10:30pm – I’m going to be busy. VERY BUSY.

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1. Consume eleven chicken wings and a Diet Sierra Mist
2. Watch the end of a Doctor Who
3. Take a thirty minute nap
4. Write blog post
5. Fall asleep

First two items I knocked out perfectly. Nobody is better at eating chicken wings and watching Doctor Who. I’m competent at that shit.

Note – I never actually get the “wings” part of chicken wings. They are disappointing and way too much effort for the meat payoff. Drumsticks or bust!

Now, the nap situation. This is a problem in my life. Not the nap itself. Naps are fantastic. But I am in a weird denial about my ability to take a nap.

I don’t think I had ever consciously taken a nap until I was twenty one. At the time I was studying self-hypnosis and I would put myself in a trance for fifteen minutes. I was able to set an internal clock to wake myself up exactly fifteen minutes later, but during that time I was fully unconscious. Little did I know it then, but I was napping.

Since then I have become a nap God. Fifteen years later nothing is more exciting to me than a thirty minute nap. But, even since I ditched the hypnosis years ago I have never actually been able to take only a thirty minute nap. I still believe with all my heart that I can do this – and, technically I can – but I won’t.

My body is one of those that needs eight hours of sleep every night. Preferably nine hours, but that’s near impossible. So, I’m always a little sleep deprived. I can’t take naps during the week – there just isn’t any time. But when Friday night rolls around – IT’S NAP TIME, DAMMIT.

Now, I haven’t been keeping a log, but if I had to estimate I would say my record is 0/140 in waking up thirty minutes later refreshed and alert. I always end up doing two hours minimum. But, like the boozebag who swears he can stop after just three shots of Cutty Sark, I am in massive denial.

Last night my girlfriend said:

D.J., there’s no way you’ll wake up in thirty minutes and write. You will go right to sleep. Guaranteed!

Nope. Just thirty minutes. You’ll see.

Well, I’ll say good night to you now since you’ll be out until 8am.

No need! I’ll be calling you after I write. In fact, DON’T say goodnight! I forbid it!

Uh huh. Goodnight.

You’ll see!

— fin —

Smash cut to four hours later waking up at midnight. Not because I was refreshed, of course. I had to go to the bathroom. As I stumbled back to bed I thought, “Hmm… I wonder what went awry? Why did I let myself sleep? I should have woken up and did my writing. Well, next time I’ll totally nail it!”

I wish I could say that any part of what I’ve written this morning is hyperbole. But it isn’t. I’ve heard that the strongest human desire is not actually survival – but denial. And if you think about it, people will kill themselves because they believe they’re better off dead, that nobody loves them, that they’re worthless, etc. And that’s almost certainly untrue.

Now, while my ego is way too invested in me being alive to suggest suicide, I know that I am living in denial in many different ways. I think the trick over time is to uncover what the underlying reasons are that make me ignore the truth and work on healing those wounds.

And, I owe my girlfriend an apology and a thank you for not subscribing to my denial. We all need at least one good friend who loves us enough to tell us the truth despite how we feel about it. If I was hanging out with one of my buddies and I whipped out a ten gallon cowboy hat and said, “Okay fellows, let’s hit the disco!” I would hope to  Christ  that my friends would go, “Put that hat away – you look like an asshole. And nobody says ‘disco’ anymore.”

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