In many ways, I prefer anger because it’s just easier to hate someone. You can yell. You can scream. You can throw things. You can bitch to your friends. In anger, you find allies. Your boyfriend cheated on you? Your girlfriends will support your mad-as-hell rage. Getting revenge is more fun for everyone (except for the target) than feeling sorry for yourself. Anger encourages empowerment. Carrie Underwood’s Before He Cheats song was a huge hit because she didn’t cry, she got even. Whoever said living well is the sweetest revenge never “took a Louisville slugger to both headlights.” Honestly, I wish I could tell you a fantastic story about how I avenged a personal grievance, but when my crazy ex-boyfriend accused me of slashing “a hole in all four tires” I didn’t do it. Hell, I didn’t even know where he lived at the time.

When someone you love has hurt you, you may also experience emotional pain or depression. And trust me, no one wants to hear about it. After a certain point (other people determine this time for you), you are supposed to “get over it.” Even your best friends will grow tired of your pain because no one likes a pity party. In Sex and the City (episode #25), Carrie’s friends tell her to see a psychiatrist because they can’t listen to her whine anymore about her breakup with Big. According to the latest CDC statistics, more than one out of 20 Americans (ages 12 and older) are depressed; yet people are expected to pop a pill, see a shrink, suck it up, and move on. When someone asks, “How are you?” the only acceptable answer in our society is “I’m fine.”

Then there is painger. Anger and pain meet, they join forces, and they focus their energy against you as if you did something wrong. Their power is unstoppable, unbelievable at times because you feel crazy. The fury causes your adrenaline to increase, which elevates your heart rate; meanwhile, you cannot stop the tears from falling down your face. The faster your heart beats, the harder you cry, as if a dam has broken inside of you. If you think about the people who have upset you and you don’t know if you want to hit them or hug them, then you may be experiencing painger.

When I’m sad, I cry, nap, write, read, bathe, shop, walk Winston, and/or talk to someone. When I’m angry (and I cannot confront the person due to circumstances beyond my control), I exercise, pace, shower, scream, shop, and/or complain to someone. When I’m paingry, I have found only one thing that tempers my rage and controls my tears. I hit balls at the BatCade in Burbank. If available, I choose the slow-pitch softball batting cage #1 because I can’t hit anything else and it’s located on the far side of the property so no one bothers me. I usually pay for the time instead of by the pitch, but either way, I stay until calluses start forming on my hands and my arms are too sore to lift the bat.

I love hitting the balls; they become the faces of the people whose actions caused my painger. This year, I’ve been seeing old friends and an ex-boyfriend soaring toward me as the pitching machine spits them out. With every swing, my emotional pain moves from my heart into my arms and hands. With every hit, my anger transfers from the bat to the ball as if I have slapped those people who have hurt me. When the softball flies through the air, I feel free from the painger; it’s impossible to cry or to be mad when you imagine hitting a home run. I always leave the batting cages feeling depleted but satisfied that I have won another battle against painger. My batting average—.60—isn’t too shabby either.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I want to thank Bones for inspiring this blog. I promise we’ll have that Long Island at Boardners, and we’ll hit some balls when you visit LA.

I have always known I would outlive everyone I love (I mean everyone)—even my younger sister, but I thought I would be 70 and she would be 56. Unless I change my own fate, I will surely outlive my father and most likely my husband. Though he didn’t raise me for much of my life, I am truly my father’s daughter in every way. I still want to make him proud of me—how silly is that at my age? And my husband is so much more than my lover; he is my best friend, my sounding board, my biggest fan, my constant companion, and he always kisses me goodnight. Who will do that when he’s gone?

When asked what the secret of her success was, Barbara Walters responded (I’m paraphrasing), “Surviving personal losses.” I understand what she means. I don’t disagree with her, but I don’t think I can take another loss—whether it’s the death of a loved one or the end of a friendship. The pain has become so unbearable that no amount of Valium or Wellbutrin or therapy can minimize it. I end up feeling lost all the time because of my losses.

But when I think about altering my destiny, choosing to end the aching in my heart (I marvel at how the heart really hurts on a physical level; I experience chest pains), I consider what that choice would mean to others in my life— particularly my husband and my father. I also wonder what Adrienne would think—she would be angry with me for wasting my life, for throwing away the opportunities that she missed. And I would be causing the two people I love the most, the worst possible pain, the kind I don’t wish on anyone. Then I realize I can’t do it. I’m stuck. Here. Now. In the present.

I cannot handle any more losses, but they will happen—for all of us—when we least expect them … like our own shadows stalking us on a sunny day.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance. — Ecclesiastes 3:1-4

The Bible got one thing right.

AWW — XoXo

When I’m not sleeping, I’m sleeping—even if I’m awake. I walk around half-dazed most of the time too stressed to pay much attention to the world around me. The only time I “wake up” is when I teach and when I volunteer (i.e. when I’m in charge). I probably should not be driving.

AWW — XoXo

A highly intelligent, older woman made that statement. I want to shake her and scream, “Toxic emotions didn’t kill my sister. Cancer did. Cancer caused by hepatitis.” I won’t touch her, of course—that would be assault.

I don’t know what is harder to deal with: the fact that my coworker believes what she said or that Adrienne believed the same thing.

AWW — XoXo