You went upstairs to meditate. You told your wife you were going. A modicum of silence and peace in the house for twenty minutes goes without saying doesn’t it? Apparently not. Within minutes there’s a phone call conducted at full volume outside the bedroom door. Your kid comes looking for you and she tells him exactly where you are and lets him barge in. You got a little meditation done, and that’s better than nothing, but come on.
You’ve been negotiating a contract for months. It’s tricky these days because everyone is risk averse thanks to COVID, and risk averse means lawyers which means that the simplest thing can take weeks to resolve. You’ve finally gotten it hammered out and you ask the agent you’ve been working with to send you the band’s revised terms. Instead of a grateful-it’s-over message the email you get is scathing and berates you — you personally! — for dragging this process out.
Your employee Slacks you for the fifth time in one day. “Got a sec?” Dreaded words that are always followed, in your experience, by at least an hour of disorganized blather. No, in fact you don’t have a “sec.” You politely ask him to send you an email summarizing the problem and he agrees. You pat yourself on the back for navigating this dysfunctional communication like a professional. An hour letter you get that email, but rather that summarizing the problem for you to consider, he’s copied you on a message to the CEO, going around you to address the issue.
All of these situations have the power to give rise to seething anger, or at the very least to a severe bout of grumpiness.
Or do they? I notice in all these situations (which I’m sad to tell you are quite real) the common thread is the story I tell myself. After the actions in each event take place, there’s no magic power that continues to churn, causing me to be furious. No, what’s churning and spitting out anger is me, effectively narrating my life and explicating my anger.
Do I really have to explain that I’d like a few minutes of quiet to meditate? That’s common sense isn’t it? I’d never be so inconsiderate.
That asshole is a half-baked wannabe. I’m the client here. How dare he talk to me that way. Who’s writing the check?
That’s the last straw. I was super clear in my request. Time to clean house and fire this idiot.
None of these statements moves the football. I might make a note to tell my wife explicitly that I’d like half an hour of relative peace; I might buy an “I’m meditating” door hanger for the bedroom and as my kid to honor it. I might fire the agent or send him a check if I think his band is still worth hiring. I might fire my employee or coach her. Any of those things I might do, but exactly none of them require anger — much less are improved by its addition.
So what does the anger accomplish? It supports my outrage and my feeling of being wronged. But more than anything else it extends itself in time from the moment of surprise and anger to the afternoon or day or week of simmering rage. It lengthens the stress and upset I feel, but provides no benefit. And it exists entirely in the ongoing story I’m telling myself about myself. If I’m quick, I can catch myself telling that story, and I can also stop.
I’m choosing to stop and to tell myself a different story. Why not?