crocodilian

Every now and then a motivational quote drifts across my Facebook feed.

“You always have a choice in how you respond.”

I understand what they’re trying to say.

But I’ve never quite believed it tells the whole story.

If someone says something that really gets under my skin, I don’t first experience a calm, thoughtful moment of choice.

First comes the crocodile.

His tail starts flicking.

His magnificent teeth emerge from the reeds.

He has opinions.

Strong ones.

Years ago I would sometimes let him speak before I’d had a chance to think. Sarcasm is a quick language, and the internet is an awfully efficient place to send it.

These days something different happens.

The crocodile still appears.

Only now I hand him a toothbrush.

He doesn’t always appreciate it.

While he’s busy polishing those splendid teeth, I take a breath.

Sometimes another one.

More often than not, by the time he’s finished brushing, I no longer feel quite so certain that the internet needs to hear what he had planned to say.

I’ve become better at that.

Not perfect.

Better.

The internet has actually helped me.

Once words are out there, they’re remarkably difficult to gather back again. You can’t put the toothpaste back into the tube. A sharp comment typed in thirty seconds can linger for years.

Sometimes I also think about people who are drinking when they’re online. Add a few drinks to an already irritated crocodile and… well… perhaps it’s best not to imagine the comment section.

So yes, I’ve learned to pause.

What I haven’t learned is what happens to the anger.

People often celebrate self-control as though it’s the finish line.

For me, it isn’t.

It’s only the beginning.

The strange thing is that becoming better behaved hasn’t automatically made me peaceful.

Sometimes the crocodile never bites.

He never even growls.

He brushes beautifully.

But afterwards I can still feel something simmering quietly inside.

Years ago I came across a sentence that stayed with me:

“Depression is anger turned inwards.”

I don’t know whether that’s clinically true. Human beings are far more complicated than one sentence can explain.

But I do wonder whether unexpressed anger has to go somewhere.

Perhaps it doesn’t disappear.

Perhaps it simply changes address.

That makes me think of a pressure cooker.

The steam isn’t dangerous because it exists.

It’s dangerous because it has nowhere to go.

Maybe that’s the part our cheerful motivational posters sometimes skip over.

Learning not to lash out is valuable.

I’m grateful I’ve become better at it.

I’m genuinely proud of that small piece of growth.

But restraint isn’t the same thing as resolution.

The emotional energy doesn’t simply evaporate because I’ve chosen not to press “Post.”

I’m still learning what to do with the steam.

I don’t have any grand conclusions.

Only an observation.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve discovered that wisdom isn’t the absence of anger.

It isn't becoming so enlightened that the crocodile packs his bags and moves to another swamp.

He’s still there.

He’s just developed excellent dental hygiene.

And perhaps that’s enough for today.