Woman of a Certain Rage

The hormone app is predicting rage, but it’s WRONG. I AM NOT AN ANGRY PERSON!

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

‘Today, you may feel angry,’ a message on the app tells me. ‘Based on your hormonal cycle, your symptoms may include anger or irritability.’

I have only just opened my eyes and stumbled out of bed. I am not angry or irritated in any way.

The sun is shining. The flowers are in bloom. We’re in for a warm and sunny summer’s day. And I am feeling calm and in control. The only thing that could frustrate me is the app.

It predicts lots of symptoms throughout the month—headaches, bloating, tiredness, stress, anxiety and even apathy. It’s usually not far wrong. There have been days when it’s surprised me how in tune with my body it is. But today, it’s way off.

I delete the message. Just thinking about being angry could sub-consciously incite the emotion and I don’t want that. I want to be the happy and calm person I know I am.

I take a deep breath and slowly exhale, letting the negative energy drain away. Today is going to be a good day.

I make a cup of tea, grab my laptop, and write for a few hours before rushing to the stables to sort the animals. Once they’re fed and watered, I’m back in the car; this time, heading to the hairdressers.

I sit in the chair, chatting and laughing with the stylist, eating biscuits, and drinking cups of tea. I couldn’t be any more relaxed.

The next stop is my auntie’s house to drop off a book she’s borrowing, before making the 20-mile round trip to buy horse feed.

It’s only when I’m back at the stables, unpacking, that I realise I’ve bought the wrong food. I’ve come home with Seniors Conditioning Mix when it should be Seniors Complete Care. I check the label, hoping it might be okay. The pony is not a fussy eater, but the conditioning mix is for weight gain and that is the last thing she needs.

Feeling slightly annoyed, just slightly, I call the animal feed place, explain what’s happened and tell them I’ll return this afternoon. As I hang up, I receive a message from my sister telling me I don’t have to pick my niece up from school, as I usually do on a Thursday. She’s blown me out for football and will meet me at their house later.

‘That’s fine,’ I tell myself and my sister. ‘She’s growing up. Why would she want to spend time with her auntie when she could be chasing a ball round a muddy field?’

I finish the jobs at the stables and drive home to have lunch with my husband, who has rustled up a healthy quiche and salad.

‘Only a few more days before we go away,’ he says.

‘That reminds me.’ I put down my knife and fork and grab my phone. ‘The bag I ordered hasn’t arrived and I need it for the holiday.’

I go online to check the delivery status. My parcel has been dispatched from Holland, is currently in customs, and will be three to eight days.

‘Why is it being shipped from Holland? It’s supposed to be coming from Manchester. It’ll not be here in time.’

Chris shrugs. ‘Do you have another bag?’

‘No, I need this one.’

‘Right,’ he says, looking unconvinced.

I visit the website of the supplier in Manchester. If I order before 2pm, they provide next day delivery. I check my watch. It is now 2.04pm.

‘Can you believe this?’ My voice is rising. ‘As if I don’t have enough to sort! Why is everyone so incompetent?’ 

Chris shakes his head and smiles, retreating to his home office and closing the door.

I re-order the bag, which means I now have two bags in transit. I’ll just have to hope one of them arrives in time.  

Then I’m on the road again, to exchange the horse feed, before driving to my sister’s.

My entire body is tense. Trying to fit everything in — writing, work, horses, family, maintenance appointments, getting ready for a holiday and even finding time for lunch — is exhausting.

Aware that my stress levels are creeping higher, I take a few deep breaths, employing a technique that Navy SEALs use before entering high-pressure situations. An evening with my sister is not quite a high-pressure situation, but near enough to require some calming.

I breathe in slowly for four seconds, hold it for four seconds, then breathe out for four, letting the tension go and relaxing at the wheel. I do it again.

One…two…three…four. Hold…two…three… four and out. I fill my lungs and release the tension.

In…and…out.

The sound of a car horn beeping jolts me from my tranquil state.

A man in a Range Rover is overtaking me, beeping, and gesturing out of his open window, fist clenched and shaking it at me.

What’s happening? What did I do?

I check my speed (thirty in a thirty zone) and look around. There’s only him and me. I didn’t pull out on him. I did nothing wrong.

Had I zoned out at the wheel?

Not enough to warrant this response. But I make a mental note to reserve deep breathing exercises for high-pressure situations and not the drive to my sister’s.

The man flies past me at about a hundred miles an hour, disappearing into the distance. A few minutes later, I turn off the main road into a quiet country lane, and he’s there, stopped by some temporary traffic lights.

I pull up behind him and can’t help but laugh. In his desperation to overtake, he’d almost broken the land speed record, and look where it’d got him: one car in front. What a knob.

The lights change to green and he’s away faster than a formula one driver on pole position. And I don’t know what comes over me but, in an instant, I’ve put my foot to the floor, and I’m in hot pursuit.

My little Yaris can’t compete with a Range Rover, but I speed up enough that if he glances in his rear-view mirror, he will see my little red car, pursuing with purpose.

How dare you treat me like that. You good for nothing, arrogant arse of a man.

What makes him think he can go around shouting and bullying women drivers? Well, he’s picked the wrong woman!

We’re on a long, open road, with nothing but fields on either side of us. Now we’re out of the village, the speed limit has changed to national speed limit. But the man clearly thinks he’s on an airport runway and is trying to take off.

My car does not go fast—anything above sixty and it starts shaking—so I hold a steady pace, trying to stay with him. I want him to realise that he can’t go around abusing women.

The distance between us gets wider. My car’s 1.3 litre engine is no match for his 5 litres, and soon, I can’t see him.

I presume that’s the end of it, but when I turn a corner, he’s there.

Photo by Michael Heuser on Unsplash

He’s pulled into a tractor road, turned his car to face me, got out and is waving his arms around in all manner of derogatory ways.

It flashes through my mind that he might try to shoot me, but my rage quickly overpowers my panic. He will not scare me into submission.

I wind my window down, reach out and make a specific hand gesture that I hope communicates exactly what I think of him. I beep my horn three or four or maybe five times and carry on up the road.

Within a few hundred metres, I’m at the junction. But instead of driving on to safety, I want to turn around and tell him what for.

The rational side of my brain says no. I should continue to my sister’s house with no more confrontation. But the irrational side wants to go back and knock his block off.

I sit at the junction, fighting the urge to go back. I put the car into first gear and force myself to drive forward.

Ten minutes later, I stumble into my sister’s kitchen.

‘You need to make me a cup of tea,’ I say. ‘I’ve had an altercation.’

‘With one of my neighbours?’ Worry flashes across her face.

‘No, with a man in Millhouse Green.’

‘That’s okay, then.’ I hear the relief in her voice. She busies herself filling the kettle while I relate the story.

‘You need to be careful,’ she says. ‘He could have attacked you.’

‘How dare he bully me.’ I sit at the table, sipping my tea and trying to steady my shaking hands. ‘I mean, why did he pull up? That’s nasty. What an angry, awful man!’

Sarah opens her mouth to say something, but I carry on. ‘It’s intimidation tactics, that’s what. He’s a bully. And he picked on the wrong woman.’

I rant for a good twenty minutes. On and on I go. And I wonder where it’s coming from. It’s like I’ve reserved all my rage at female oppression for this one man.

Later that night, when the rocket fuel is no longer coursing through my veins, I play the scene over in my mind, trying to understand what happened.

Why had he shouted at me? Why had I snapped and given chase? Why had he used intimidation tactics? What was he thinking? What was I thinking? Why had I felt such utter rage?

Rather than take flight and go straight ahead to the safety of my sister’s house. I’d wanted to turn around and fight—and I’m not a violent or confrontational person; I’ve always been quite calm.

The app said I might feel angry or irritated; it hadn’t mentioned I’d be consumed by rage and spend the afternoon on a rampage.

I’m amazed at how out of control I felt.

‘Why do I feel angry?’ I ask the app.

‘You may be dealing with hormonal imbalances,’ it replies. ‘Progesterone increases shortly after ovulation and research has indicated that progesterone stimulates the amygdala—the part of the brain responsible for fight-or-flight responses. Triggering the amygdala could make you feel super-stressed, and maybe even a little depressed.’

It adds: ‘The imbalance of hormones can spark spontaneous, difficult-to-control episodes of rage.’

Suddenly, it all makes sense. The amygdala has a lot to answer for.

I read on. Apparently, perimenopause-induced rage may feel different from typical anger or frustration. There’s a chance of going from feeling stable to feeling intensely irritated in a matter of moments.

‘That’s what happened,’ I say. It was all within the change of a traffic light.

Not wanting to turn into a raging monster again, I research what I can do to better manage the feelings. I find an article offering some advice.

The first thing I need to do is to accept my anger. Bottling it up isn’t the best approach because that might lead to depression, so I should accept that my body is imbalanced and adjusting.

I’ve done that.

The next step is to understand my triggers.

‘Men,’ I say.

‘Be as specific as you can,’ it says.

‘Arsehole men in Range Rovers.’

The third step suggests I consider where the feelings are coming from and ask if the person or situation deserves this amount of anger.

I can sum it up in one word: patriarchy. And yes, he absolutely deserved it.

Next up is to meditate. Usually, I’d accept this as being the answer to everything. But today, I can’t help wondering if that’s what got me into the situation.

The last step is to sign up for anger management classes, which seems drastic when it’s my hormones causing havoc. I stop reading and check who has written the article.

It’s a man.

Of course, it is.

If anyone should be in therapy, it’s Range Rover man. At least I can blame my hormones. What’s his excuse?

I stop reading and instead make a hot chocolate. As I sit down to finally relax, my app bleeps.

‘Did you experience any symptoms today?’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘Nothing to report.’