a letter to the wounded child within

on accepting a truth i've tried to avoid

c.d. mudge

Nov 25, 2023

what do you do with your anger?

how do you tend it?

you can’t let it run amok; nor can you neglect it.

what do you do with your anger?

regardless,

mind that you keep it,

and not the other way around.

are you insane like me? been in pain like me?

Having spent the last week in careful, and deliberate, contemplation, I have arrived at an discomforting conclusion: I have been mistreating my anger.

I have been ignorant.

I have been deceiving myself.

I have, in short, been a fool.

It gives me no pleasure to admit these things.

But they are true nonetheless.

At times, I’ve watered my anger willingly and excessively. I haven’t just let it grow; I’ve given it fertilizer, bought it a high-powered UV lamp, and done a bloody rain dance.

On occasion, I’ve neglected it or simply pretended that it wasn’t there. As I’ve hopped over roots and ducked under branches, I’ve told myself that I was just doing some light calistenics—who’s avoiding anything?!

And then, forced to submit to the bald fact that I have not “mastered” my anger—an illusion I could indulge in easily enough before but now seems impossible to reclaim—I feel fresh anger arise.

An onslaught of shame, anguish, and frustration over my inability to cope with shame, anguish, and frustration.

If they have a Merry-Go-Round in Hell, surely, this is it.

And you know what? I’d really like off the ride now, please. The constant spinning is making me sick. And why do the bucking broncos have red eyes and bloody hooves and flames erupting from their nostrils? They were all pastels and candy colours before. And look!—they’re grimacing all of a sudden. They used to look like they were neighing joyfully.

You know what?—that’s it!—something’s not right here… get me off this infernal thing.

You hear me?! Stop it! Stop the ride! Stop it right now! STOP IT!

I need to get off—I’m going to be sick.

And here I thought I could enjoy a harmless popcorn flick in peace—but maybe I’m getting ahead of myself…

Allow me to set the scene:

It’s a chilly Saturday afternoon in November. The kind of liminal day when the passing of time seems imperceptible. The kind of day when the sky is dingy and grey and foreboding and makes you want to stay inside, so you do.

The radiators hiss and sputter, providing a blessed counterpoint to the dreadfully drafty windows. Two of the cats have fallen asleep under the rad and I pause to consider if I should wake them up... how long it will take before their brains bake inside their skulls? I wonder.

Having spent the morning packing boxes and stuffing garbage bags for the upcoming move, I plop myself on the couch for a much-needed break. My mind and body need time to reset—not just from packing—but from life. I put a lot into unspooling and, in turn, it takes a lot out of me. I need this. I deserve this. I grab a blanket and put the foot rest up. The movie starts and I fade away.

It is there that I sit, gleefully gaping in open-mouthed amazement as John Wick murders two nameless would-be assassins with a pencil, when, to my surprise—nay! my shock, my exasperation, my horror!—k sits down and watches silently for a few moments.

“This is so stupid—isn’t it awesome?” I ask. And it is. Absurdity and excess seem to be the point.

She pauses for a beat before answering, assessing me with a look of bewilderment, “Babe, I think you have to have anger problems to enjoy watching movies like this.”

Au contraire, ma chérie! I think. Surely you don’t believe me to be so base as to enjoy violence and murder even vicariously, do you?

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I reply, “I don’t have an anger problem…”

But the gears are already turning. Even as I laugh it off, my subconscious mind has begun the contemplative work.

“At least, not anymore,” I add hastily.

But she’s gone again already. And the lie falls on my ears alone.

i think there’s a flaw in my code

… “not anymore” …

Is there a balm more soothing for the tortured soul than self-deception?

Oh, Past Cody, you gloriously wonderful idiot.

Is that how you think anger works? You simply develop and maintain a robust meditation and yoga practice for a few years and—poof!!!—just like that, it’s Anger-Be-Gone? A lifetime’s worth of pain and suffering and trauma erased in an instant? Come on, you’re a clever guy—do you really think that’s how anger works?

“Well… kinda,” Past Cody says sheepishly.

I shake my head.

Clearly, we need a tête-à-tête.

If you don’t have garbage, you have nothing to use in order to make compost. And if you have no compost, you have nothing to nourish the flower in you. You need the suffering, the afflictions in you. Since they are organic, you know that you can transform them and make good use of them.

- Thich Nhat Hahn, Anger: Wisdom for Cooling the Flames, 71

It’s true.

I’ve always been prone to fits of explosive rage. Eventually, all of the background frustration I feel builds into an all-consuming berzerker fury. Often, the catalyst is sudden and unexpected; the straw that breaks the camels back. In the throes of such a frenzy, I often feel rabidly compelled to smash, break, or otherwise destroywhatever object has raised my ire.

That’s the part that scares me the most. The irrepressable urge to destroy.

(The “blindness” of the rage is a close second.)

As I’ve tried to mindfully dissect my tendencies over the last week, I’ve come to wonder if the destructive impulse, on a subconcious level at least, is a misaligned instinct to permamently remove the “source” of my anger. It even follows a simple chain of logic: I don’t like the way anger makes me feel and I believe it to be destructive; I don’t want to feel that way anymore; therefore, I should seek to remove the source of the anger.

Makes sense, right?

And it does.

But here’s the thing.

If the “source” of my anger truly was located in objects, in people and things in the world—that impossible video game level or that stubborn mug that won’t come clean or that idiot driver that just cut me off—shouldn’t I feel better once the object in question is destroyed? (We’ll have to do a thought experiment for that last example. To my knowledge, I’ve never successfully destroyed anyone that’s cut me off.)

(Not for lack of trying.)

And yet, invariably, I feel only shame and regret in the aftermath.

This ain’t it… keep fishin’, cowboy.

And you know what?

Something tells me we’re gonna need a bigger boat.

these voices won’t leave me alone

As Thich Nhat Hahn explains,

All of us have a seed of anger in the depth of our consciousness. But in some of us, that seed of anger is bigger than our other seeds—like love or compassion. The seed of anger may be bigger because we have not practiced in the past. When we begin to cultivate the energy of mindfulness, the first insight we have is that the main cause of our suffering, of our misery, is not the other person—it is the seed of anger in us. Then we will stop blaming the other person for causing all our suffering. We realize she or he is only a secondary cause.

Excerpt from Anger: Wisdom for Cooling the Flames by Thich Nhat Hanh, 36-7.

Okay—maybe it’s time to admit that the energy of my mindfulness has, thus far, been insufficient to match the strength and power of the seed of my anger.

Seeing, was the first step. Admitting, the second.

The third step, I’m afraid, will be the hardest of all.

Forgiveness.

I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it will be a helluva lot easier to fall back into my old tendencies, get pissed off, and start the cycle all over again. But, instead, I’d really like to begin again, this time. I think I’m ready (more ready, at least). And my mindfulness has grown immensely since I last evaluated this habit.

And, look, I’m not trying to say that I’m not going to feel angry. I wouldn’t tell you that. That’s not even possible. But what I am telling you is that I’m convinced that we are never justified in speaking or acting from our seed of anger. Hahn’s right; empirically and objectively. If you speak or act out of anger, in any way, you water the seed. When you react in anger, you contribute to, and ensure, your own suffering. And you cause others to suffer. In turn, they will trigger more suffering in you.

Oh! Would you look at that! Another Merry-go-round from Hell. Lovely.

(And if all this is coming across a bit preachy, please remember that I will have to remind myself to stay mindful before reacting about five thousands times just in this next week. I have no doubt that I’ll fuck up at some point and bite back—probably many more times. If it was easy, everybody’d be doin’ it, right? But the mistakes are okay; practice makes… better. And better is enough in this game. Bank on it.)

well, my heart is gold and my hands are cold

Hahn recommends that we tend to the seed of our anger (properly, mind you) to foster a healthier relationship with it.

To take good care of ourselves, we must go back and take care of the wounded child inside of us. You have to practice going back to your wounded child every day. You have to embrace him or her tenderly, like a big brother or a big sister. You have to talk to him, talk to her. And you can write a letter to the little child in you, of two or three pages, to say that you recognize his or her presence and you will do everything you can to heal his or her wounds.

Ibid, 44.

Healthy reactions to anger, he explains, include curiosity, mindfulness, acceptance and peace. This doesn’t mean that we should swallow our anger, either—that will just lead to resentment. Rather, it means asking our anger to pull up a chair so we can get to know it a bit better.

It is in that spirit that we end today’s unspooling with a letter:

To the Wounded Child Within,

I see you. I hear you. I recognize your presence. Would you like to come and sit with me? We can hold hands if you want, or not; whatever the case may be. I just want you to know that you have my full and undivided attention.

I know how sometimes it feels like nobody cares… but I want you to know that I care.

I know that sometimes it feels like you’re invisible… but I want you to know that I see you.

I know that you worry that no one will listen to you… but I want you to know that I’m listening.

I know that sometimes—okay, most of the time—you feel like you don’t matter. But, regardless of what anyone else says or thinks, I want you to know that you matter to me.

I love you.

Thank you for being you.

I want you to know that it’s okay to share that you’re suffering and to tell others that you’re hurting. It doesn’t make you weak. It proves that you’re strong and it will make you stronger. And it doesn’t automatically mean you’re “not okay”—and even if you are “not okay,” that’s okay too.

I want you to know that you don’t have to bear your burdens alone. In fact, you can’t; so don’t even try. Let others help you like you’re letting me help you now.

I’m sorry that you feel hurt and scared sometimes. I get that. Your feelings are valid. But I want you to know that you’re loved and supported. You can let go of any pain you’re carrying. You’re going to be okay; you’ve got this.

I’m sorry that sometimes you feel like you’re a failure. Life can be difficult and it’s painful when you disappoint someone but I want you to know that you aren’t a failure. There are eight-something billion people on the planet right now and none of them are you, and none of them could be. Even if they tried their very hardest. And yet you do it perfectly and effortlessly every time. Now does that sound like a failure to you?

I’m sorry that sometimes you feel like your life is a waste. Finding meaning and purpose can be tricky in this world, but don’t get discouraged! Let your soul guide you! And in the meantime? Remember that you are an indelible part of All That Is.

Now.

Close your eyes.

What do you see?

Nothing?

Come on; look closer.

Yes, that’s right— you see emptiness!

Okay, open your eyes.

Now what do you see?

Mhmm… exactly: space for the world.

And it’s all right there, right where “you” are.

I don’t know—your life doesn’t seem like much of a waste to me.

I love you, kiddo.