For the millionth time in what was now eight minutes, I wondered if corralling a bunch of individuals with temper issues in the same room was a good idea. The smallest of sparks could ignite one of us, unleashing a chain reaction that would explode like fireworks across the room. Except they wouldn’t be colorful and pretty, but an ugly, dangerous pyrotechnic display with the potential to blow off the roof. As I bowed my head, I allowed myself the smallest of grins and half crossed my fingers, because if it happened, we’d get to skip the rest of the hour, collateral damage be damned.
“Again, let me take this opportunity to thank you for joining the group this evening,” Geraldina said in her so-cheery-it-was-annoying tone. “Please remember everybody is welcome here. This is a safe space filled with mutual respect.”
I tried hard not to roll my eyes at her language du jour. Bug lady pursed her lips, and eggplant hoodie didn’t say anything, either, but folded into themselves like an accordion, now appearing half their original size. As I sank lower in the old wooden chair, which had already made my butt numb, I hoped Geraldina wouldn’t ask me to share. I’d seen similar groups on TV, where people bared their souls before bursting into tears and piling in for a group hug, the idea of which made me shudder. I tucked in my chin, wishing to be invisible, and thought how counselors like Geraldina got any satisfaction from this job was a complete mystery. We were more akin to a bunch of sullen teens than adults, so moody I half expected to end up grounded if I didn’t change my attitude. Maybe I’d be sent to bed before the session was over.
I glanced around the room again, counted nineteen other individuals who’d either been forced or, like me, had kind of, sort of, maybe, agreed to these sessions of their own accord. At thirty-three, I wasn’t the youngest or the oldest. As I pretended to listen to what Geraldina was saying, I continued observing one participant after the other, trying to guess what had brought them here. Anger issues, obviously, but what kind?
One guy sitting a few chairs to the right might’ve been at home in a UFC cage and capable of tossing my weathered Ford F-150 truck with one of his sleeve-tattooed arms. He had his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin, seemingly hanging on to Geraldina’s every word. Why was he here? It was easy to make stereotypical assumptions. Road rage? A bust-up at a bar when someone side-eyed his partner once too often? Or had his partner done the side-eyeing?
The older woman next to sleeve-tattoo sat straight-backed, fingers spinning her gold wedding band on her left hand. She wore a tailored black suit and killer red-soled heels probably worth twice my monthly rent. When I arrived, she’d made eye contact, seeming open and friendly, not the type to lose her shit. Most people would think she belonged at a business networking luncheon or a parent-teacher meeting rather than a session like this. After all, women, in particular, weren’t supposed to burst into fits of rage, we were taught to swallow it down, keep ourselves in check.
“You’re an angry woman, Frankie.” How often had I heard that? As if it were an emotion exclusively tolerated and understood in men, something they felt was completely justified, and yet we felt the constant need to apologize for it. I barely scraped five feet three inches on a good day, yet my temper had been compared to an offensive lineman, a Tasmanian devil, or a sun bear, depending on who was asked. Until I looked it up, I’d assumed the latter might’ve been a compliment. Turned out sun bears aren’t cute and cuddly as the name would imply, but vicious creatures who’d rip your face off if given a fraction of a chance. I mean, come on, I wasn’t that bad.
Truth is, we all carry some degree of anger inside, every single one of us, and anyone who insists on the contrary is a goddamn liar. Some ignore it; many stuff the sentiments into a little box and keep it closed, maybe ridding themselves of tension through breathing exercises, meditation, or a deep tissue massage. Others, like me—and probably many of the people in this old church hall—didn’t fare as well. We could explode in a nanosecond if the wrong button got pushed. Become red-faced and feral, noticing the verbal or physical damage we’d caused only in the aftermath of the carnage, when it was too late. My temper could turn into fire, wild and impetuous, unpredictable. Able to get by on a tiny ember until it was fed. It wasn’t a part of me I liked but it was difficult to ignore, one of the reasons I often preferred my own company so I didn’t piss anyone off but myself.
“Okey-dokey.” Geraldina clapped her hands, startling me into sitting straight as if school were in session. “Time for our first reflection exercise and an opportunity to get in touch with our feelings.”
A soft groan escaped my mouth. Not quiet enough because Geraldina glanced at me, put her head to one side, and gave me one of her dazzling, cherubic smiles. Despite her cheery facade, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was thinking your dad said you were a shit-stirrer.
“It’ll be beneficial, I promise.” Her gaze flicked around to the others in the circle. “It can help you let it go.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, promised myself if she broke into the Disney song, I’d shove those coffee stirrers into my ears as well. Willing my legs to resist making a mad dash for the beverage supply table, I sat on my hands and waited for further instructions. Ones I’d already decided to ignore.
“Forgiveness is a process,” Geraldina said, and bug lady let out a snort. Tough crowd. Apparently, I wasn’t the only cynic. Like a trouper, our counselor pressed on, undeterred. “It takes time and commitment. It’s hard and can be painful. At times it may seem impossible. However, if you’re willing to put in the work, it might be the best decision you make.” She put a hand to her chest, tapped lightly a few times. “You might lose some emotional baggage for good.”
“Lost baggage has a tendency of showing up,” the woman in killer heels said, garnering a few snickers from the rest of us. “I should know. I travel almost every week.”
“Let’s see if we can help you get rid of it forever,” Geraldina said.
“How?” sleeve-tattoo guy asked. “The way I see it, sitting in a circle won’t cut it.”
“One of the things we’ll do is work on a forgiveness list,” Geraldina said.
“Forgiveness?” Bug lady practically spat the word.
“Not all in one go. It’s a document we’ll come back to over the next six weeks.” Geraldina paused, smiled at us. “For today, take some time to think about anyone you feel has wronged you, and whom you have anger toward. Make a note of the people you haven’t been able or may not yet want to forgive, and write down why.”
A ripple of indecipherable murmurs spread across the room, and Geraldina smiled again as she held up her hands. “Again, it’s not something you’ll finish tonight. The aim is to be as close as possible to letting the anger you currently feel go by the end of the sessions.”
“What if we can’t?” a woman of about sixty with corkscrew curls said. “Or if we don’t want to? What then?”