I just read a pretty great piece about dealing with rage, here if you’re interested:
So I’ll start off by saying— it can be pretty difficult to distinguish between these feelings, actually. Emotional alchemy allows us to slip between all different states. Some reactions are complete— you convert your unwanted sadness cleanly into pure drive-to-do-better— some aren’t. You end up with fifty barrels of toxic Evil that you dump in somebody else’s river. That tell-all book you write that absolutely ruins all of your friends’ and family’s lives! Oopsie! At least everybody feels bad for you— for about fifteen minutes. You kill yourself— but not because you’re sad. You do it because then they’ll be sorry.
Some sadness is really just rage— you aren’t sad. You’re not helpless and heartbroken. You’re furious, and you just don’t know how to express it.
But sadness has benefits— nobody thinks that pure rage is cute. It drives people away pretty fast. It’s so vindictive, so ugly. Perhaps you learned to mask your rage as sadness because others found it more acceptable. You got slapped for insulting your mother, but you got a cookie for crying about it.
I had a friend who could tell the most heartbreaking stories— but what I eventually realized was that, underneath her tiny and adorable wet-kitten facade, she was absolutely enraged. She used her sad stories like a weapon to undercut the abusers in her life. It wasn’t acceptable to others when she smashed things and threw tantrums, and it wasn’t acceptable when she delivered cold-hearted and aggressive accusations, and she couldn’t punch somebody— so she cut competitors off at the knees by making them realize that they would never out-sad her. And they’d look like awful people if they tried to fight her. I say this with a bit of admiration, actually. She was a warrior doing what she could with what she was given.
I’ve met men who seemed like pathetic little strays, too— they could write the most heartbreaking poetry— but god forbid you reject them romantically. They had learned to finesse their emotional imbalances as ‘sadness’ because sadness can be sort of charming in low levels. Guys have it rough, too— it might be kind of macho to be a fighter, but you’re a dangerous lone-wolf if you go too far. If you got too close to the truth with these pretenders, and caught them in a lie, they could be overwhelmingly destructive. Sadness cringes, crumples, or slips away when it’s challenged. Rage explodes.
My mother is the angry type. If she gets pushed too far, she’ll get angry— sadness is her kryptonite. She finds sadness boring and unbearable. She can’t stand it. She was helpless in the face of my depression— all she could do was hold space, and I could feel how painful it was for her.
As a woman, she struggled with her rage— because women aren’t supposed to get angry. A woman’s anger triggers a deep survival instinct in most people. “Mom’s supposed to be disappointed, not threatening!” My mom used to respond to my brother and I, when we were doing something dangerous and stupid, by saying “Fine. But I’m not taking you to the emergency room.” My mother has put people in the emergency room. We took her seriously. We got down off the table.
She told me that at one point in the Aikido dojo the men in the class complained that the women were too prone to crying— it should be forbidden. The women had to explain that, for women, crying can be an expression of rage and frustration— the guys were allowed to snap and yell, and they should be allowed to cry.
Be careful not to mistake your rage for sadness— the rest of this article is for people who are genuinely sad. If it makes you angry or defensive, switch to the article I linked about rage. The following tactics might not work for you. I’m actually not trying to piss you off. When you’re angry, more anger is poison— it’s fuel on the fire. But when you’re very sad, the right dose of anger can be medicine.
For those of us who have gone Too Far into the realm of The Constant Sad, we know that there’s a point when people just feel uncomfortable. After they realize they have no solutions to your sadness, which is like a single bay connected to the ocean of The World Sadness, they feel lost. They drift away like happy little balloons— and you’re the needly hedgehog, threatening to burst their bubble. This is how, sometimes, sadness tries to masquerade as rage.
"People suck. They always disappoint me. I hate them!” You don’t hate them, you sad little creature, you love and need them too much. You’re afraid that you’re really the problem. In fact, you know it. When you pretended to be happy, they loved you. When they were sad, you always knew what to say— because you endure The Constant Sad. Their sadness is paltry compared to yours. Maybe you were a little jealous. Maybe you wanted to one-up them. Maybe you just couldn’t contain it anymore, and it flooded the surrounding areas. Maybe you wanted them to really understand you, just a little.
Maybe you’re a little too fond of being sad.
The Pity Party.
Ah, this brings me to the first sadness solution.
Sometimes, when I’m telling myself the most wretched and pathetic version of events to sum up my life, a little voice pops up. “Are you enjoying your pity party?”
That’s right— who could I possibly invite to this pity party? Who could I make feel bad for me? Maybe if I tell a really, really sad story someone will come and fix it for me. Some knight in shining armor will ride up on his horse and—
One time, in college, I came upon a friend weeping on a bench outside one of the dorms. She was normally the most bubbly hippy chick you’ve ever met— with just a dash of sass. I was shocked. I immediately sat beside her to help her talk it out. I had a final due the next day, and I needed to get to the studio to finish it. But I put that aside— I had struggled with suicidal ideation and I always took it seriously when someone was having a breakdown.
We talked for a long time until our mutual friend strolled up. She immediately started wiping her tears and glommed onto him. It turned out to be his dorm, and she quickly ditched me to go inside with him. All at once, the picture was clear— her sadness was legit, but it was also a performance. I didn’t have the solution she sought— she needed a man. The story was a means to an end. She was lonely and horny and I wasn’t what she needed. But she couldn’t just say that— women aren’t supposed to just say that. There are social consequences.
So sometimes I unpack my story. What is it I was hoping to accomplish by telling my sad tale? What practical solution do I require? Do I need sexual gratification? Food? Sleep? Company? A break with my favorite book? Yes, yes, we have complicated stories— we’re humans— but we’re also animals. Sometimes we’re throwing a pity party because we’re hoping one of the guest will bring presents. We can’t just buy ourselves presents, can we? Of course we can.
But this brings me to another sadness solution.
Having been ditched by the girl for whom I set aside an evening, I was confronted with my original problem. I had a final to do. I had been ditched by my friend, but that’s not the only struggle I had that semester. All semester long I had been watching my love-fixation with His Woman. It was agonizing. I had never been so obsessed with a guy before— and I had been obsessed with some guys before— and he had picked a woman who was as different from me as possible, while still being a female artist. The chances were zero. He had made his choice clear. I made a whole minute-long animation about the dangers of giving your heart away to someone who didn’t want it— and I showed it to him. Oh yes. You want performative sadness? I couldn’t judge anybody for their choices— I knew exactly how manipulative my pathetic little heart was. The guy I was ‘in love’ with was in love and perfectly happy. And I couldn’t be happy for him. It threw the whole concept of love into question. Was I a bad person? Did love make me a bad person? I could’t answer these questions. I didn’t know what functional love looked like. I only knew how it felt to be floundering in personhood. Who was I? Why did I want the attention of somebody who couldn’t care less? Did he hold some key to who I was supposed to be? I made art about it. That’s the solution. Sometimes you can’t do anything with your sadness until you’ve made an effigy outside of yourself. You can burn it, or you can post it on Youtube to inflict your cringiness on others:
For my final I made the most fucked-up video you’ve ever seen about maple syrup. It was an anti-sweetness propaganda film. The audio was caustic and terrible. On some level I think I almost wanted to hurt people, but I couldn’t quite do it. I was too awful and pathetic. I didn’t deserve to hurt people. I couldn’t do anything right, and that was my fault. I thought it was incredible that you could take an innocent concept and make it evil with the right soundtrack. Do you get the connection??? Doyougetitdoyougetitdoyou— you can watch it here: (for the love of god, be prepared for some intense audio)
Now, maybe you really hate yourself. Maybe you really hate your feelings, and you can’t just… show them to people. Even if they’re heavily-veiled. But they won’t go away. They play like a constant soundtrack. That’s alright. Like I said before— you can still make art about it. You can just burn it, instead. Or smash it on the concrete. Or rip it up and throw it away. I’ve done all of these things. You want to kill yourself? You don’t need to kill yourself— you need to kill the illusions you have about yourself. You need to kill the version of yourself that’s already dead, and undead, and eating your brain. You think you’re a sad story? Write a sad story and throw it away. The sad story is gone. But you’re still here. You’re not a sad story.
Sometimes your brain is desperate to come up with a solution and tells a story that isn’t the truth. Maybe you’re just cold. Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe the sun has been away for a long time— I’ll never forget the time I came out of a deep depression, a constant internal monologue about things that were long-over and unchangeable— and tried to figure out what triggered it, and why it ended. What was different that day? Suddenly I realized that it had been overcast for three weeks— until that day. I was just light-deprived. Now I consider that in my evaluations, along with other triggers— hunger, isolation, premenstrual symptoms. It’s not invalidating— sometimes your sadness is a very clear signal, and you’re overcomplicating it. Keep a journal and figure out the pattern. What’s really making you sad? Don’t get distracted by a story.
Mary, it’s worse than that. I don’t know what’s wrong. I just know that I feel so, so sad. I feel so much sadness that it’s killing me.
Been there. In fact, that was the real problem— I told myself the saddest stories, but the saddest stories I could tell myself still didn’t explain the sadness. The sadness was too big for all of that. Where did it come from? I still don’t know— I have to admit, I think I soak it up from the environment like a sponge. Sometimes I’ll hug someone and they’ll tell me I make them feel so much better. I walk away drenched in sadness that isn’t mine, and if I can’t make it into art to give it resolution then I don’t know what to do with it.*
When I can’t shake a sadness, I just keep going.
Some nights at school I would be wracked with emotional pain. I mean, I felt so terrible that my brain hurt. My body ached. I would sob on the floor, infested with ghosts, and there was nowhere to go. No way out. An angry voice in my head would try to goad me into killing myself because I was worthless. I was sad for no reason. I was a burden to others. I couldn’t tell anyone— it would just make them upset, and then I’d be an even worse person. And I was already unforgivable, I just didn’t know why.
So I’d go for a walk. I’d walk for hours, tears streaming down my face, unable to see. I’d walk through rainy nights and I’d avoid any people who might ask questions. “Just keep going.” I’d tell myself. I’d go until I was exhausted. Exhaustion is better than sadness— exhaustion can sleep. Sadness can’t.
One night, something happened. I couldn’t see clearly through my tears, or hear clearly through my sobs. But something had changed in my environment. Confused, I snapped out of it. A cat came towards me, meowing.
Suddenly, somebody needed me. This cat was out on the road, and it needed my attention. I pet the cat until I felt calm, and then it led me to a house. “Is this your house?” The cat wandered around the doors, noncommital, and then led me to another house. “Is… this your house?” The cat led me to another house. “Do you not have a home? Do you want to come back to the dorm with me?” The cat followed me most of the way back to my dorm before disappearing. I realized that the cat had been trying to help me. The cat was fine. I was the one who needed help. And I didn’t know how to ask for it. And I needed to go home and sleep.
A friend once told me that if I really needed help, someone would be there for me. I was always disappointed that it couldn’t be a human, until I realized— sometimes it’s a cat. Sometimes it’s a bird singing. Sometimes it’s a beautiful river which knows all about “just keep going.” Sometimes humans fail you— and sometimes you fail other humans. It’s not unforgivable. It’s not necessarily a tragedy. It’s just another thing that happens.
And it is sad. But it’s not endless. It’s an instance. If you start connecting all the dots of sadness, you have a huge network of Sad. But you can connect any dots you want— what if you made a work of art about what you really wanted?
Do you know what you really want?
Ah, there’s a problem.
Sadness can become a habit— you don’t know what you want, but you know what you don’t want. And you wander those halls like a school you graduated long ago. There’s nothing left to learn here. It’s time to face uncertainty. The sadness isn’t a certainty— it’s just familiar. And familiarity can be comforting, but if it is the problem then it can’t possibly the solution. So stop answering sadness with more sadness.
Start answering it with boredom. ‘Is this who we are?’ I’ll ask myself, staring at the ceiling. ‘Is this what we do?’ The sadness has exhausted itself and given way to a powerful emptiness. Lots of room for questions to suddenly pop up. ‘We just fucking lie here, feeling sad? God this is boring. Do anything. Do literally anything but this.’ Suddenly my body is up and I’m doing— something. And I don’t interrupt the action to tell myself the same damn story all over again. I do literally anything else. Because we’ve watched The Depressive Episode, and we’ve learned everything we can learn from it, and it’s rotting our brain like bad TV. Do literally anything else. You don’t have to love it. It doesn’t have to be your reason to live. You just have to Do Something. Advertisements come on? Get up and do chores. The episode is just too boring? Shut it off and go outside.
I’ll admit I learned this from my less responsive companions. Some people just don’t care that you’re sad. But you know what? You can do that, too. Sad? Don’t care. Boring. Next. Keep hitting next until something else comes up on shuffle.
Which brings me to my YouTube playlist.
If you can master answering sadness with boredom, you can move onto the next level: distraction. Is the pitbull in your mind really working over its favorite toy— sadness? But look! What’s this! squeaksqueaksqueaksqueak. I am constantly building my YT likes list. I frequently go into my ‘liked videos’ and hit ‘shuffle’. You can always skip videos or hit next, but sometimes shuffle is an absolutely inspired playlist. I’ll be listening to my favorite sad songs, the ones that know exactly how I feel, and suddenly my cartoon pal Gir is running around maniacally and screaming that he’s naked. The spell is broken. Or a song with the antidote I need arrives— and I’m healed. Or, uh… I get bored. I can’t listen to these anymore. I need to do literally anything else.
But I deserve to be sad. I’ve done bad things. Truly bad things. I can’t be forgiven.
Shit. That one’s tough. That’s a ‘please put me down like a bad dog’ kind of vibe. That’s a ‘no one should make that kind of error and I’m not sure if I can forgive humanity’s capacity for evil, knowing what I know’ kind of vibe. You can’t erase history— that’s how we learn. You can’t undo a mistake. It’s done. Damage created. If you fuck up so badly that you can’t fix it, you get out of the way so that other people can do better. And you never make that mistake again. And you never bother those people again. You start over if you have to— and you recognize that your mistakes may follow you for a long time. If they call you on it then you own it, entirely, and you recognize that no one owes you forgiveness. If they don’t want to talk about it then you keep your silence. If they erect a wall then you don’t climb it. You respect the other person’s pain. You have to find a reason to do better, even if nobody appreciates the effort— and you do it somewhere that isn’t going to re-traumatize the people you’ve harmed. And you expand your sense of empathy— because you know things other people don’t know. You’ve been the problem. You’ve failed to find solutions. You’ve made the world a worse place. You are in a unique position to help other lost causes, and to explain the unforgivable.
I have done some things that were bad— not that bad, but I’m prone to emotional exaggeration so I have felt guilt over genocides and environmental degradations and terrible events I see in the news about distant places in space and time. As for the things I’ve actually done, I can understand why I did them— I don’t feel especially guilty about them, because they made sense at the time and didn’t stand out as being especially brutal— but now that I’m older and wiser, I don’t think they were good things. I learned from them, and it was valuable— to me.
But was it valuable to the other person? Did they need that experience? What about the times people hurt me and it wasn’t okay? And they didn’t change? Or I just couldn’t understand them, and didn’t want to? Do I forgive them? Enough to ever want to be around them again?
Maybe you don’t deserve forgiveness. Maybe you’re deep in it, or maybe you’re just being hard on yourself. Maybe you committed acts of genocide, and those people aren’t coming back, and you’re guilty. Maybe you ate your roommate’s sandwich and lied about it. Whatever it is, you’re sad. And you kind of deserve to feel sad.
But does sadness fix it?
Or does it feel like a bandaid solution to a gaping wound? You need to grow and change. You need to stop making the same mistakes repeatedly. And you need to accept that it may never be enough for the people you hurt. It’s a hard road ahead of you. But sadness doesn’t make it easier. And you have a responsibility to walk it. You owe the world. You don’t get to be sad like that fixes things. You don’t get to act sorry. You just have to do better.
I’ve been there.
I’ve also been the one who didn’t forgive. Sometimes, I wanted the person who hurt me to suffer. Sometimes the pain brought an awful evil side of myself to the surface, and I thought they deserved terrible things. I didn’t want them to be sad about it— because how dare they. I wanted them to be very sad about it— because how dare they. The truth is, they had crossed a boundary and I couldn’t forgive them— or myself— for not being able to prevent the harm from happening. I wanted it to never have happened. I didn’t want to be that person, and I hated the people who made me into that person because their own lives were out-of-control. But I couldn’t reject the reality of the situation— that’s delusional.
The only thing that made me feel any better was time, and space, and proof that they were changed— and wouldn’t hurt me again. I didn’t want them in my face— even if they had gotten better— because I resented the fact that they were thriving after hurting me. I didn’t want to know all the details of their life. Sometimes, I didn’t even want to think about them. I got rid of things that reminded me too much of them. I drew connections that didn’t make sense, because their existence drove me mad, and I raged internally about unrelated nonsense that triggered the wound. But in the end, that was my problem. And sometimes I couldn’t cut them out of my life— sometimes I had to accept their presence.
And the only thing that could make me feel better was healing, and reparation. They had to do better, and they had to make up for the pain they caused me. They didn’t necessarily have to make it up to me— but I had to know that they gave the world more joy and healing than the damage done, that they had rebalanced the scales.
Because I’ve made mistakes I can’t fix. So I have to do more good, to balance the scales.
And because I want things to get better— even if I don’t know how.
Maybe a human isn’t there for me. Maybe it’s a cat.
Maybe my abuser isn’t there for me— maybe they are there for someone else who has been abused.
I want a happy ending. I can’t have that if everyone else is sad. And it’s frustrating— because not everyone else’s sadness is mine to solve.
So I hold space. This is the last solution I offer. It’s been a complicated ride, because it’s a complicated subject. I’ve missed some spots, because I have a lot of interrelated sadness experiences. Maybe if you ask a question about your own situation , someone can answer it.
But you have to hold space. You have to hold the possibility that the sadness has a solution. If you can’t find a solution, then you have to hold space for one to come later— because if you can’t believe in a happy ending, it won’t matter if it comes. You won’t be able to believe it.
The truth is, the sadness isn’t endless. It convinces you it is endless, but then one day you realize that you don’t feel sad. You realize that, whenever you feel sad, you think you’ve always been sad. It’s an altered state of consciousness. You learn to recognize and acknowledge the state— and you learn how to negotiate it. You are not a sad story. You outlast the sad story. You are the one writing it.
What do you want?
Stick around and find out.
Edit: I can't believe I forgot— cry. Cry. Cry. Nature gave you a beautiful way to clear your eyes so you can see better, and expunge toxic chemicals from your brain. Cry. Watch a Studio Ghibli film, or something that makes you feel safe and open— and cry. If you can ever cry around other people, you’ll have truly made it. Nothing has healed my unforgiveness like crying about it.
p.s. writing this gave me a headache so I’m hitting publish and I hope it makes sense to someone. not ‘complete’, but not nothing.
*(If you have this experience, you may actually be an empath. Explain it however you want— but I realized, at a certain point, that I had programmed myself to deal with other people’s emotions because I couldn’t stand their suffering. I would take their suffering on to ‘fix’ it, so I wouldn’t have to feel it in my environment anymore. But it often didn’t ‘fix’ it, because the person never learned to deal with their own suffering— they just learned to use me like a drug. Develop boundaries. Other people’s problems are their problems, and you are arrogant if you think you can fix it better than they can. Give them the opportunity to handle themselves, and take care of yourself. It’s a gift you give to those you love to Be Well. If that means you have to cut off people who aren’t handling their problems, you need to do that. You can’t enable other people to avoid their problems— it prolongs the inevitable. Do what you can, and then leave it at that.)
I love that you typed out all of this, without a filter, and posted without looking it over twice. This is what we need more of—truth, realness, rawness. I *felt* this, and no, I would not call myself an empath.
Oh, and you do animation so well! I'm seriously impressed. I'm a suckered for stop-motion animation especially. Well done! 👏