Читать книгу Mood Swing - Jane Graves - Страница 10

The following Monday, Susan hurried from the hospital to class and managed to slip into her seat with a whole minute to spare. Tonya and Monica were already there. Danforth was planted in his chair, too, looking as if he’d been prepared to get out the paddle if she hadn’t made it on time.

“Today we’re going to talk about the physiology versus the psychology of anger,” Danforth said. “Physiologically speaking, the amygdala is the part of the brain responsible for identifying threats and then sending out an alarm that causes us to react in order to protect ourselves. It sends that distress signal so rapidly, however, that the cortex, the part of the brain responsible for the application of thought and judgment, is unable to discern the rationality of our reaction.”

“Huh?” Tonya said.

Susan leaned toward her. “If we’re threatened, our brains are designed to react first and think later.”

“Precisely,” Danforth said.

Susan furtively rolled her eyes. If she’d said it so precisely, why hadn’t he?

He droned on about how they had to teach their prefrontal cortex to judge the consequences of the proposed action of their amygdalas. Susan was a nurse. Physiology was her thing. And still she was bored to tears. She could only imagine how much the other women wished they were anywhere else.

Then Danforth started in on the psychology of anger, with special emphasis on the differences in the way men and women express their anger. After what seemed like forever, he put that set of notes away and pulled out something else.

“Now that we understand the psychology and physiology of anger,” he said, “I’d like you ladies to learn a method by which you can express your anger constructively to the person with whom you’re angry. It’s known as the ‘I-Message.’”

Sounded like psychobabble to Susan, but what the hell.

He handed them each a sheet of paper. “I want you to think about a situation that has angered you in the past and fill in these blanks.”

Susan took a pen from her purse and looked at the form. The first line read, “I feel (be specific).” The second one read, “When you (give details of the behavior or circumstance).” The third line read, “Because (this is the why of your anger).”

They each filled in their forms, and a few minutes later Danforth said, “Ms. Saltzman. To whom is your I-Message directed?”

“My cousin, Sandra.”

“Read it, please, phrasing your statement as if you’re talking directly to her.”

Monica sat up straighter in her chair. “I get angry…”

“Yes?”

“When you call from New York at three in the morning to cry on my shoulder about all your problems…”

“Because?” Danforth prompted.

“Because I don’t like getting awakened from a sound sleep in the middle of the night.”

“Hmm. Would you be this angry with anyone else who woke you at 3:00 a.m.?”

“Of course.”

“Even if it were an emergency of some sort?”

“Well, no—”

“When she calls, what else do you discuss besides her problems?”

“Nothing, of course. It’s all about her. On, and on, and on. She couldn’t care less about anything going on in my life.”

“Ah. Then your I-Message statement would more accurately read, ‘I feel hurt when you call and monopolize the conversation to vent about your problems because it makes me feel as if you don’t care about mine.’”

“Sorry, no,” Monica said. “I’ve never cared whether she cares about me or not. It’s those middle-of-the-night calls I can do without.”

“In any case, you should discuss these phone calls with her in a nonconfrontational manner.” He gave her a pointed stare. “But do try to be true to yourself about what lies at the root of your anger.”

By the look on her face, Monica clearly thought she was right down at the very tip of that root, no matter what Danforth said.

He turned to Susan. “Ms. Roth? To whom is your I-Message directed?”

“My daughter. She’s fourteen.”

“Please read it for the class.”

“I feel angry when you bring notes home from school but don’t tell me about them until the last minute because then I’m rushed to complete whatever task I’ve been asked to do.” Susan looked up. “It’s no fun making brownies at midnight.”

“Simple solution,” Tonya said. “If she can’t get you the note in time, she doesn’t get the brownies.”

“Right. And then all the other mothers think I’m a slacker.”

Danforth tapped his chin with his index finger. “So the opinions of the other mothers are part of the reason you’re angry? You feel inadequate?”

“No,” Susan said. “I just want my daughter to give me the notes so I have time to do whatever I’m supposed to do. That’s all.”

“So time pressure is another part of the equation.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Susan said carefully, “if my daughter just gave me the notes.”

“Restructured, your I-Message might read, ‘I feel angry when you don’t give me notes in time because then I have to accomplish the task on short notice or risk alienation from my peers.’”

Alienation from her peers? Did anyone besides Danforth actually talk like that?

“You see,” he went on, “I sense that the problem doesn’t lie with your daughter, but with your resentment over having to do these tasks at all.”

“No, I really don’t think—”

“Dig deep, Ms. Roth. Get at the real reason for your anger. Only by doing that will you be able to manage it effectively.”

He was dead wrong about this. Susan didn’t mind doing mom tasks. But she minded very much doing them at midnight, and that was about as deep as she intended to dig.

Danforth turned to Tonya. “Ms. Rutherford. To whom are you addressing your I-Message?”

“One of my customers.”

“Share it with the class, please.”

Tonya picked up her form and read. “I feel frustrated when you come into my shop with a horrible comb-over and expect me to cut it like that again.”

Susan and Monica snickered a little, and Danforth held up his hand to them. “Because?”

“Because then you go back to work or wherever and somebody says, ‘Hey, where did you get that…uh…great haircut?’ and you say, ‘Tonya Rutherford over at Tonya’s Hair Design did it.’ Then my reputation is in the toilet because everyone thinks I suggested that god-awful cut. Bad word of mouth can screw up my business something awful. But I can’t say anything because pissing you off as a customer would screw up my business, too.” She sat back and folded her arms. “So basically, I’m screwed.”

Danforth blinked dumbly. “Yes. Well. At least you seem to be in touch with the reason for your anger in this situation.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps instead of direct confrontation, you could suggest a new haircut to this gentleman?”

“Please. Like I haven’t tried that?”

“Hmm. Sometimes there are professional situations where confrontation, even constructive confrontation, isn’t the answer. Could you simply be unavailable in the future when he makes an appointment?”

“I take walk-ins. What am I supposed to do? Lock the door when I see him coming?”

“You’ll simply have to decide whether refusing to cut his hair if he refuses to change his style would be more helpful to your business than harmful.”

“Did I mention he tips really well? I don’t like losing good tippers. But that hair…God.”

“In future classes, we’ll be discussing how to manage the anger you’re forced to hold inside when the expression of it is inappropriate. I’m certain that will help with your dilemma.”

“Oh, screw it,” Tonya said, waving her hand. “Next time he comes in, I’ll just shave him bald.”

Danforth closed his eyes. Was he counting to ten, maybe?

“You know that kind of aggressiveness is completely inappropriate,” he said, as if Tonya would actually consider it.

Then again, maybe she would.

After that, Danforth turned on a video that showed people in a class like theirs sharing their I-Messages, as if they needed reinforcement on that particular method. By the time he finally dismissed class, Susan was more than ready to leave. She stopped by the bathroom on the way out, joined by Monica and Tonya.

“Thank God,” Tonya said, as they stood at the sink. “One more class behind us. All that ‘I-Message’ stuff was a crock.”

“I could have done without it, too,” Monica said.

“Dig deeper,” Susan said. “Why? As if I wasn’t angry enough about the issue already?”

“After all that, I still don’t know what to do about Comb-over Guy.” Tonya swiped on some lipstick. “I’m heading to that new bar and grill down the street for a drink. Anybody care to join me?”

“What’s the atmosphere?” Monica asked. “Is it up-scale?”

“Haven’t got a clue,” Tonya said, stuffing her lipstick back into her purse, “but I’m betting if you pay them six bucks, they’ll put a martini in front of you. So are you coming?”

“Sure,” Monica said. “I could use a martini. Or, after that class, three.” She turned to Susan. “How about you?”

“I don’t know. My daughter’s home alone.”

“She’s fourteen,” Tonya said. “By the time I was fourteen, I was drinking martinis myself.”

Susan decided it would be okay if she stayed for just a few minutes. Have one drink, then head home. She pulled out her cell phone and called Lani, who told her that of course she could stay home by herself, all night long if she had to, and to please stop treating her like a kid. Susan told her to make sure the doors were all locked, to finish her homework and to stay off the Internet.

By the time Susan clicked her phone shut, she could already taste that martini.

Fireside Bar & Grill was one of those places with lots of dark wood and brass, the kind of decor that made you feel as if you were in your father’s study—back when fathers had studies. The crowd was older and the music dull, but all in all it was a cozy place with generous martinis, and after a few minutes Susan felt a pleasant little buzz that took the edge off the irritation she’d felt in class.

Tonya lit a cigarette and took a hard drag. “You know, I’ve had it with Danforth. And it’s not anything in particular. It’s everything in general. The way he walks. The way he talks. The words he uses. The clothes he wears. That great big nose.”

“There isn’t anything you like about the guy?” Monica asked.

Tonya paused, looking contemplative. Finally she shook her head. “Nope.”

“Did you hear that comment he made about how men generally express anger more directly than women?” Susan asked.

“Guess we’re the exceptions,” Monica said.

“He said that when men murder, they usually shoot or stab. Women haul out the poison.”

“I have to think there’s something wrong with a man who feels superior about the way his gender kills people,” Monica said.

“Or maybe he’s trying to tell us to be more insidious,” Susan said. “That way we might not end up in jail.”

“I think the man/woman violence thing is all bullshit,” Tonya said. “Personally, I like the direct approach. If I’d had a few dishes with me tonight, Danforth would have found out exactly how direct.”

“Tonya, dear,” Monica said. “It’s an anger management class. Hurling things at the instructor is discouraged.”

“Oh, yeah? Anger management? I’ve got news for you. I already know how to manage my anger. I’m CEO over my anger. I tell it to jump, it asks how high.” She took a haughty drag on her cigarette and blew out the smoke. “My anger deserves to be freakin’ employee of the year.”

Susan had always wondered about women who seemed to have no fear. It generally meant they had even more fear than everybody else, but they were just good at hiding it. Susan had a feeling that Tonya was hiding more than most.

“So your own husband actually filed charges against you for assault?” Susan asked.

“Yep. I told him it was a really wussy thing to do, considering he’s six-three, two-twenty and a firefighter to boot.”

“And even he’s afraid to mess with you?”

“Honey,” Tonya said with a smug smile, “everybody’s afraid to mess with me.”