DIANE MAKAR MURPHY In anger, I don't talk; it's better to take a walk

When I get really angry, I shut up and walk. This does not come easily to me. In fact, it's taken me 46 years to figure out, and, at best, I'm still inconsistent in its application.
The walking part I learned before the age of 1; the shutting up part took an additional 44 years. For a year, I've been trying to remember to do it.
Personal relationships have a huge learning curve, especially when it comes to anger. (Those who don't realize this are guaranteed a divorce; those who do get a limited warranty.)
My husband, John, and I are good examples. We manage anger in completely different ways.
Example in my house
I was taught by example to blow off steam. This was pre-Oprah, so it didn't mean counting to 10; it meant venting. It meant the A-bomb at Los Alamos was an acceptable problem-solving technique for my family.
A prime example comes to mind. I was about 12, standing in the kitchen of our cape cod on McCracken Boulevard in a suburb of Cleveland. My mom was digging in for a long-term tongue lashing.
"You what?! What on earth were you thinking!? How could you?! Why did you?!"
Then a visiting aunt contributed, "Go ahead, give it to her good. Really scream. It's not healthy to hold it in."
(This was my first inkling the approach wasn't necessarily all it was cracked up to be.)
Very different
John's upbringing, as well as his disposition, made for a wholly different approach. Journey through time and space, across the country, for a second flashback to John's youth. Imagine a barbed wire fence strung across the desert near Phoenix, coyotes howling in the distance and a tumbleweed rolling lazily under a scorching sun. John has spent the day tossing bales of hay at the ranch and finds himself embroiled in a heated argument.
GARY COOPER: Yup.
CLINT EASTWOOD: Nope.
JOHN: You guys talk too much.
Two vastly different techniques never meant to meet, and yet. ... If you flash forward a few decades you will find these two divergent arguers in one household in Boardman. Listen, as two opposites detract. ...
DIANE: John, I can't believe you ... [shocked dismay and raised voice]. ... You shouldn't have ... [redundant lecture and scathing look]. ... I wish you would have ... [guilt-producing blather]. ...
JOHN: Yup.
DIANE: John, don't you know that made me feel ... [sharing of feelings]. ... It makes me so mad ... [sharing of feelings]. ... Didn't you know you ... [sharing of feelings]. ...
JOHN: Nope.
DIANE: Is that all you have to say ... [screaming]. ... [tsk, nod]. ... [phone rings] ... [stomping foot, exasperated sigh] ... [argument ends].
Approaching nearly a quarter-century of these mismatched argument styles, I had a revelation as I clenched my teeth and stomped my foot one day. Stop talking.
Gelatin in the brain
Anger, I think, is generated in a gelatinous outer layer of the brain. It's gelatin; just like the kind on the shelf at Giant Eagle -- with about the same reasoning ability. When a person gets mad, the gelatin goes from lime to raspberry, and in the process, secretes mind-altering venom. Because you must access the inner, reasonable self through this writhing, wiggling mass of poisoned raspberry gelatin, the person you've shared your bed, a life and children with for dozens of years looks like a hairy, two-toed monster. Shutting up allows the gelatin to stand still.
So now I don't vent. I leave. I lash up the sneakers and walk. By the time I return, if it is a good, long, two- or three-day walk, the gelatin has stopped moving. THEN I talk, and only then, IF I need to. Usually, I don't.
And it took only 46 years to figure out.
murphy@vindy.com