Anger Kills
Anger literally killed my grandfather. I mean literally literally here, not figuratively: My grandfather Harry G. Duntemann got furiously angry, and he died. This is one reason I've tried all my life to be good-natured and upbeat, and not let piddly shit (a wonderful term I learned from my father) get me worked up. This worked better some times than others. (Once it almost didn't work at all. I'll get to that.) Practice does help. However, in the wake of the election, a lot of people whose friendship I value are making themselves violently angry over something that may be unfortunate but can't be changed. This is a bad idea. It could kill you.
Consider Harry Duntemann 1892-1956. He was a banker, fastidious and careful, with a tidy bungalow on Chicago's North Side, a wife he loved, and two kids. One was a model child. The other was my father. Both he and his son were veterans of the World Wars, which is one reason I mention them today. My grandfather, in fact, won a medal for capturing two German soldiers in France all by himself, by faking the sounds of several men on patrol and demanding that they come out with their hands up. They did. He played them good and proper, and nobody got hurt.
He had an anger problem. Things bothered him when they didn't go his way. Family legend (which I've mentioned here before) holds that my father comprised most of the things that didn't go his way. His anger isn't completely inexplicable. Harry worked in a bank, and was for a time the chief teller at the First National Bank of Chicago. You don't get to do jobs like that if you're sloppy, and if you spot errors, you track them down like rats and kill them.
Harry was the sort of man who really shouldn't retire, but retire he did, at age 62. He bought a lot in tony Sauganash and had a fancy new house built. I honestly don't know what he did with his time. He golfed, and taught me how to do simple things with tools when I was barely four. He worked in his garden and his vegetable patch. My guess: He was bored, and what might not have bothered him when he oversaw the teller line at Chicago's biggest bank now preyed on his mostly idle mind.
One day in August 1956 a couple of neighborhood punks vandalized his almost-new garage, and he caugfht them in the act. He yelled at them, and they mocked him. He yelled more. They mocked more. Finally he just turned around, marched into his house, sat down in his big easy chair...
...and died.
He was healthy, a lifetime nonsmoker, trim, not diabetic, and not much of a drinker. I suspect he was more active in retirement than he had been during his working life. He had no history of heart disease. He had no history of anything. Anything, that is, but anger.
I ignited a smallish firestorm on Facebook yesterday when I exhorted people who were angry over the election to just let it go. Most of them seemed to think that "letting it go" meant "accepting it" or even condoning it. Maybe in some circles it does. I don't know. To me it means something else entirely, something that may well have saved my life.
As my long-time readers know, I lost my publishing company in 2002. It didn't die a natural death. I can't tell you more than that for various reasons, but Keith and I didn't see it coming, and it hit us hard. I put on a brave face and did my best. Once I was home all day, though, it just ate at me. I was soon unable to sleep, to the point that I was beginning to hallucinate. To say I was angry doesn't capture it. Depression is anger turned inward, and I became depressed.
I had a lot of conversations with Bishop Elijah of the Old Catholic Church of San Francisco. He was getting worried about me, and in late 2002 he Fedexed me a little stock of consecrated oil, and told me quite sternly to anoint myself. I did. (After I did, I laughed. Would Jesus haved used FedX? Of course He would. Jesus used what He had on hand to do the job He had to do. Catholicism is sacramental, but also practical.) Elijah diagnosed me pretty accurately when he said: You're hoping for a better yesterday. You won't get it. Let it go.
It took awhile. It took longer, in fact, than Bishop Elijah had left on this Earth, and I struggled with it for years after he died in 2005. The company wasn't piddly shit. It was the finest thing I had ever done. How could I let it go?
I thought of my grandfather Harry every so often. And eventually it hit me: Those little snots didn't kill him, as I had thought all my life. They played him, and he killed himself with his own anger. "Letting it go" cooked down to protecting myself from myself. I'll never get my company back, but I can now see it from enough of a height to keep my emotional mind from dominating the memory. I learned a lot as a publisher. I made friends, and money, and reputation. I supervised the creation of a lot of damned fine books, and won awards. Losing it was bad, but life around me was good. (Carol especially.) I could choose to obsess, and probably die before my time, or I could recognize the damage my anger could do and turn the other way. I'm not sure how better to describe it. It was a deliberate shift of emotional attention from my loss to new challenges.
This isn't just a theory of mine. Anger kills by keeping the body awash in cortisol, which causes inflammation of the arteries. The inflammation causes loose lipids to collect in arterial plaques, which eventually block an artery and cause an infarction. Plug the wrong artery at the wrong time, and you're over.
Anger is a swindle. It doesn't matter if it's "righteous anger," whateverthehell that is. Anger promises the vindication of frustration and disappointment, and delivers misery and early death. When I've seen people online turning bright purple with fury the last couple of days, that's what I see: Good people being played by the desire for a better yesterday. It won't kill most of them. It may well kill a few. It will lose them friends. It will make other people avoid them. It may prompt them to eat and drink too much. It is basically making them miserable, to no benefit whatsoever.
When I say "let it go" these days, I mean what I said above: Protect yourself from yourself. Call a truce between the two warring hemispheres of your brain. Turn to something else, something you can change, something that may earn out the effort you put into it with knowledge, skill, and accomplishment.
Believe me on this one: There is no better yesterday. Don't go down that road.
You may never come back.