My rage monster is called Velma
And, frankly, he did have it coming.
I am a ball of fiery rage these days.
Between motherhood and menopause, I feel liable to burst into flame at any moment. The lack of sleep, the constant needing of me, the fluctuating hormones… It’s like connecting to an animal state - something deep and primal in me, a need to howl and smash. It’s a powerful rage, and I sometimes wonder if there might be something magical in it…
But still, it needs to be contained.
One can’t go around shrieking and snarling all the time, and I so want to be calm and patient and present with my children.
That’s where externalisation comes in handy.
You are not your feelings. Even though they can feel all-consuming. Emotions are fleeting - the actual physiological, chemical reaction to an emotion lasts for just 90 seconds. It’s the stories we attach to it that remain. And those we can control.
If you are struggling with a difficult emotion or thought pattern, it can be helpful to think of it as a character outside of yourself - one that you can talk to and observe in a more objective way.
Paid subscribers, in a moment we’ll go through some exercises to help you do that.
But first, I’d like to introduce you to Velma.
When I wanted to design a character to embody my anger, I wanted a name with a hard edge. I liked the “V” sound, because you practical spit it from your mouth. It has a guttural quality, almost the beginnings of a growl.
“Velma” popped into my head out of nowhere, and I wasn’t sure at first if it was a little too feminine. But then I thought of Velma Kelly - the seductive murderess from the musical Chicago. And then I decided the name was perfect.
I imagine my rage strutting around in a sparkly 1920s flapper dress, banging out “he had it coming” at the top of her lungs, before pounding a shot of whisky. Then she sinks into a chair opposite me, lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. On the exhale, she says to me, cooly but firmly, “fuck them all, darling.”
She’s not evil, my Velma. She’s just tired of me being pushed around. She knows that I struggle to stand up for myself. That I find it hard to be heard, that I rarely feel truly seen. She knows I struggle to speak up for myself when I feel hard done by - that, in fact, it takes me a while to recognise when I do feel hard done by. The joy of an autistic delay in processing and understanding my own emotions.
Velma just wants me to be treated with some goddamned respect.
At moments when I feel ready to lose it, I picture Velma next to me, gearing up for a big musical number, and the image is enough to cool, slightly, the burning in my chest that tells me I’m close to losing it.
I can talk to Velma, tell her to rein it in.
She huffs and sits in the corner, sipping her drink.