day 32
I was a pretty angry little girl. Cute sure. But I had tantrums like nobody else. Strong willed, fiery. Sassy was what my parent’s friends would say. But there came a point where my rage turned into tears, anger’s more feminine, acceptable sister. I hit a certain age where I suddenly understood that my fury was not an acceptable thing for a girl. Even now, when I’m angry tears spring to my eyes, much to my frustration. I run hot then cold, my voice turns to ash, molten and builds in frustration until my voice cracks, the tears start and the formation crumbles.
I did boxing for the first time recently with a friend and damn did it feel good to tap into that childish feeling of rage. As two complete boxing noobs, we’d managed to artfully tilt an iphone on the grass to have a youtube video instruct us on the best jab, hook or uppercut (I know the lingo, no biggie). It felt sort of silly, like we were starring in a movie: genre – rom com with a strong female lead and this was the “getting our frustrations out, after a hard day of work” scene. We were amping each other up with cries of “YES GIRL, GET IT” and “you punch that patriarchy”, in between bouts of absolute giggles. Also, being the supernaturally gifted and coordinated human being that I am, any time I tried to integrate a little side step, or duck between punches, I would somehow only end up punching with one hand, like a robot who had malfunctioned midway through a task.
At work if you lose your cool, you’re labelled “difficult” or “highly emotional”, but a man losing his temper is seen as entirely justified, necessary, sharp, to the point. Our anger is labelled hot and uncontrollable, theirs cool, calculated.
Eventually, we got into it and the giggles subsided. In between rounds, taking turns to be the puncher and the punchee we started talking about how hard we’ve found it lately to love men. My friend is married, to a truly wonderful man, but lately with everything dominating the news cycle about female safety, misogyny in parliament in Australia (something my parents send me regular updates on) and a new scandal emerging everyday about a man abusing his position of power, it’s a lot to still be able to even like men, even the good ones.
Over this period, my sexual frustration has definitely waned, it was hardest probably the first week of giving up sex/ masturbation.Think my frustrations have just been translated into a feeling of anger, about something else. There’s a lot to be angry and scared about at the moment… which is hardly an aphrodisiac, although my psychology studying friend often quotes the fact that a date featuring a near death situation, bonds you and heightens feelings of intimacy and arousal. Whooda thunk it.
Anger is never encouraged in a female body. Cries of hysteria, the emotional woman fanning herself in a Victorian novel. At work if you lose your cool, you’re labelled “difficult” or “highly emotional”, but a man losing his temper is seen as entirely justified, necessary, sharp, to the point. Our anger is labelled hot and uncontrollable, theirs cool, calculated. I enjoyed the chance to get that aggression out, even if it was in a controlled environment because there was no chance of my character coming into question here, no undermining statements of “chill out”, when I felt impassioned. I hope it makes me braver. Let the rage out ladies, it feels really fecking great.