Anger Management

Anger-management. Just thinking the words leaves a sour taste in my mouth, and brings a disgusted look to my face… (Or I imagine it does). So when those very words came out of the Judge’s mouth as I was sentenced to community service and counselling, I was so shocked that I swear my jaw hit the floor.

            My worst nightmares were coming true, and I was too stunned to object as the sound of the Judge’s gavel “decreeing it so” reverberated through my skull.

            Anger-management… Angermanagement…  AngermanagementAngerm-anagementangermanagement…

            I was simmering just remembering the Judge’s final unfair ruling. “How could he?! That old vulture probably resents my youth and lively nature. Mean, nasty-tempered…” The list of names played on through my head, and when I finally reached the door that held my doom, I knocked a little harder than I probably should have.

            Bang! Bang! Bang!

            An average looking man with a hooked nose answered the door, his bright blue eyes searching my soul for what seemed like forever.

            “You’re angry,” he said, and without bothering to wait for a reply, he ushered me into a room that held ten other men, who were socializing and eating cookies and snacks from a side table. Styrofoam cups littered the tables and I found myself searching for the coffee pot, but to my own detriment found only a kettle and a painfully cheery sign advertising hot tea. Ugh.

            “Now that we’re all here, let’s begin.”

            And so it went for the next hour, each of us rising, in turn, saying our names and explaining how we ended up in this class of losers and rejects. Next we recited all of the angry thoughts and feeling we had and why.

            I had the impression of flowers and puppies. I wanted to kick the little rat-dogs, and the people who thought they were cute too. There is nothing “cute” about a monster who eats your things and pees on your floor.

            This class was nothing like what I had thought it would be. Nothing like I thought at all! I had envisioned raging, seething muscle-bound men crying on the shoulders of any who dared listen; trust exercises being practised as though we were the high school cheer team or drama club; Zen Buddhist monks humming and hawing as they meditated in the cold mountain rains; even a boot camp type of place where angry men tried to beat the anger out of their court ordered charges… Not this joke of a meeting.

            That night I went home and looked up the words “anger-management”, thinking that maybe it would be similar to the definition of “whine-fest”. I clicked randomly when the computer showed me a list of results and a description presented itself:

“Anger management classes are classes designed to help an individual manage their anger…” Duh “… and to develop impulse control…” Huh? “… using a wide variety of techniques to help calm oneself enough to maintain the measure of control needed to walk away.” As if… “One of these techniques involves group counselling and sharing.” Ah ha!   

            This is what I was looking for! This was the answer! They were not trying to help us “manage our anger” as they said; they were trying to control our minds!

            Of course this was a completely illogical and unintelligent conclusion on my part, but at least I didn’t say they were aliens or something absurd like that…

            Anyways, the next week when I arrived at my anger-management class I was wearing a wetsuit and scuba diving gear. And the week after that I wore latex doctor’s gloves and a welding mask. And the week after that I wore rainbow earmuffs, a Mardi Gras mask and a feather boa.

            On the forth week I arrived in a ballerina costume and wore a pink, plastic crown. My counsellor finally approached me about these ridiculous costumes, asking why I, a man with some measure of sense, was doing such absurdly insensible things.

            So I explained to him that I knew all about the conspiracy, and how they were trying to brainwash us and control our thoughts.

            Of course, this completely surprised him and, not knowing how to respond, he told me that I could leave.

            The following week, he too wore an outrageous outfit and announced to the class that he would no longer be able to see us. A day later he was admitted into the psychiatric ward at the local hospital.

            With no counsellor I was home-free. I stopped going to meetings and locked all of my doors and windows. E-bay and take-out took care of my more pressing needs and I forsook clothing soon after my self-confinement, unwilling to leave my small apartment now that I was sure the government was probably watching me.

            I lived this way for nearly two months before I was once more brought before the Honorable Vulture Man. He asked me all kinds of questions. Why had I stopped going to my anger-management classes? Why was my phone disconnected? Where had I gone?

I responded to each of his questions with my own question. When did he choose me? Why was he targeting anger-management classes? Why was he corrupt? Who else was involved in the conspiracy?

I could see from his face that I knew too much, I was a threat to him and his masters. But when he asked me what I meant, I told him about the conspiracy anyways. I couldn’t keep the truth bottled up now that I knew what was happening, could I? The people had to know about it, and it was my civic duty to tell it to them!

The next day I too was admitted into a psychiatric institution, and let me tell you �"

It was nothing like I thought!

Author's Note

This piece was actually an essay originally, but I see this more as a story.

Reviews

[Marie]

It would have made a good essay, but I think it makes a better story.