Are We Getting Angrier?

I’ve never thought of myself as an angry person. Sure I’ve had my moments, as we all do, but why is it that all of a sudden I feel angry A LOT?

We are sold this idea that middle-aged women are angry. It’s usually framed as the notion that once you get to a certain age, typically 40, that you just stop giving a fuck about the things that you used to worry about. And maybe there is some truth in that, but I think the story really goes a lot deeper. Because to me that version of the story screams “I care less” and being truly angry really means that you do in fact care deeply. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be angry.

I think the story starts when we are young girls. If we are slighted and we cry, or throw a fit, we’re told to calm down. It’s too much, just be quiet. So we learn to go to our bedrooms and cry alone. When our first boyfriends in high school treat us badly, and we finally yell and scream after being unheard for way too long, we’re labeled as “crazy.” So we learn to keep our needs to ourselves, and to tolerate bad behavior for fear of that label following us. Later in the workplace when we voice displeasure or disagree with a colleague out loud, we’re told that we are too aggressive. Too angry. So we learn to police our own words and tones to placate others. No one wants to be called a bitch when they’re not in the room. We know that punishment for women’s anger shows up as damaged reputations and lost promotions.

And so there are decades of anger in our bodies — just because we can’t express it doesn’t mean it disappears. It boils in our guts. 

I’m 38 now and I don’t think I’m caring less about things, I think I’m caring more about myself. When I see a piece of trash on the steps that I didn’t drop and I leave it there, and it stays there for days as everyone else in my family walks by it, I’m angry. But it’s not about that particular piece of trash, it’s about all the years of being expected to take care of the house alone that I never said anything about because I didn’t want to seem selfish or a nag. When a man interrupts me in the middle of a sentence, I’m angry. There have been too many years of not being allowed to finish my stories and thoughts. When I’m awoken from a much-needed nap by someone carelessly making a ton of noise, I’m angry. How could they, when I’ve spent my whole life painstakingly aware of the needs of everyone around me?

The story runs deep and every girl and woman experiences it in their own unique ways, but the theme remains true: when we are not pleasant and quiet, when we let our rage show, we are punished.

But you can only let a pot of pasta sit on the stove for so long before it boils over. And it feels like that is what has been happening to me lately. I didn’t get angry all of a sudden, it just bubbled and cooked for so long that now I can’t bear to keep it inside my body anymore. If being unable to please others constantly is the cost of my anger, it’s a price that I’m willing to pay. I cringe when I think about what I’ve allowed others to get away with and the ways I’ve dismissed myself because I wasn’t ready to pay that price.

I don’t think that women get angrier in middle-age, and I don’t think that they become uncaring. I think they become honest about their real feelings and needs. And honest isn’t always pretty, or quiet, or even palatable. Sometimes it’s angry.

Rage on ladies.