Lee Randall: I'll make a good fist of getting on track

Published on Tuesday 23 February 2010 18:08

ANGER AND frustration make awkward dance partners. Both want to lead and neither is graceful. They are the apache dancers of human emotion – complete with slaps, punches, and bodies hurled at walls.

I feel as though I'm locked in their vicelike arms, and that these two toxic avengers push and pull me through my every waking hour and chase me through my dreams .

A situation arose. Options were presented to me. I felt both trapped and flattered (when you've figured out that dynamic, do drop me a line so I'll know, too). I agreed to circumstances that even at the time were clearly doomed to be untenable, both because they were inherently flawed, and because they didn't suit me.

But I wanted to be a good girl. I wanted to please. And yes, there was an element of self-protection. Plus, I am bad at fighting my corner. (I can always grasp the other guy's position.) So I smiled and I acquiesced.

Things turned out to be every bit as unpleasant as I had anticipated. And despite knowing their flaws and dangers, I fell back on familiar behaviour patterns. First, I seethed. Next, I grumbled and thrashed. Finally, I internalised the problem.

Ignoring the truth – that this situation is bigger than I am and therefore cannot be solved by me alone – I slyly convinced myself that somehow I was the problem. Me and my bad attitude and my vanity and my infernal urge to play nicely with others so that they will like and praise and reward me.

It's stupidity of the highest order. Especially since choosing the soft option came hot on the heels of having lost a lot of weight in order – let's be ruthlessly honest – to be better liked, praised and rewarded. That didn't happen! Why, then, do I keep dreaming it will, if I just get things right?

What's all the more shaming is that I repeatedly indulge in these fantasies while knowing fully well they're unrealistic. Why, I've even addressed that dissonance in this very space.

Women are very good at this sort of warped thinking, and my experience growing up as my parents' child, and again in my marriage, reinforced this bad habit of mine.

If I rarely win an argument, even when logic, truth and justice are on my side, then a switch flips, telling me that I'm tragically flawed. I must be wrong, right? Even when I know I'm not. Even when there's actual evidence to back up my position.

Try telling my brain that. You see, at the end of the day, it's only truly "safe" being angry at myself. And what I do with that anger, is eat. I eat to punish myself for getting life wrong, and I eat to reward myself for bearing up under harsh circumstances. I eat because I am exhausted and I eat to fill the hole created by my lack of a partner or a best friend I could vent to and alleviate my frustrations.

In the past, I've dabbled in specialised therapy – group and individual – addressing the emotions and events that reliably send me to the fridge. The results were mixed, and always temporary. I've also dieted quite successfully, without a side order of shrink. I've never combined the two, and sensible as that might be, I am unwilling to do so at this moment in time.

Obviously, the wallowing has to stop; action must be taken, and self-respect restored.

But until I get a grip, I've got a fist! Gavin has introduced me, albeit in a small way, to the joys of the one-two punch. I jab away with my left, then aim a few longer shots at his paddles with my right hand.

Tellingly, I keep forgetting to bring my gloves back to my chin to guard my face.

Typical, isn't it, this inability to protect myself even from myself?