- Feb 5, 2002
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Here is a picture of far too many mornings. It’s 9:00, because I’ve stayed up until three, arguing with the clock and fighting the clock. I hate the clock because it’s always wrong. How can it be midnight? It was only just now 9 p.m.! Lies! Nothing but lies everywhere I look. But now it’s morning, and I’ve slept six hours, which I also refuse to believe, no matter that my cell phone alarm is screaming at me. “Alright,” I say. “Alright.” And I shut it off and I’m still tired and I look at it as though if I stare at it hard enough it will tell me the truth and it will be four in the morning again and I can go back to sleep. But no.
It is in this state of mind that I realize, as long as I have my phone in my hand, I may as well get on Facebook and read what people are saying. And I read, and then I go to Twitter, and I say to myself, “I wonder what blasphemous outrage Smith is saying now.”
And I check, and sure enough, there’s blasphemous outrage, and I’m outraged. And I find that the outrage has worked like caffeine and I’m awake, and I burst out of bed and run into the next room to find my wife, and I say, “Listen to what Smith has said now,” and she listens, and politely she gets outraged with me, and now we’re both outraged, and the adrenaline rush of anger has woke me up and started my day, and I can chase it with a very large and very strong cup of coffee while I get on Facebook and exclaim: “I’m outraged.”
This has gone on for years.
What I don’t do when I wake up in the morning is pray.
•••
I have been angry for seven years. I don’t like to get personal but I must. Anger, like any other drug, is incredibly addictive and destructive. Righteous anger is a thing; Christ got angry; but you have to be incredibly holy for it not to destroy you. Christ knows: I’m not anywhere near that holy.
But the thing is, I have time. I don’t know how much; none of us know. I’m going to be 54 later this year—my grandfather was my age when he died. I don’t know how much time is left me. Maybe as many as twenty or thirty years, with grace and luck, but I’m old enough to be aware that it’s limited. I don’t want to spend the time I have left angry. I don’t want to spend any more time slowly destroying my life, slowly killing myself. Or wounding others who don’t deserve that.
I say this in public because I’ve done this in public.
And sad to say, I’ve let my anger keep me away from confession and away from Mass for a long time. The merits don’t matter—whether my anger is just or unjust. God can sort that out. I have been wrong to use my anger as a weapon against my spiritual life. When it gets that bad, it’s time to say a Rosary and let it go, and go to Confession and go to Mass.
Easier said than done. Pray for me.
Continued below.
henryscottalt.com
It is in this state of mind that I realize, as long as I have my phone in my hand, I may as well get on Facebook and read what people are saying. And I read, and then I go to Twitter, and I say to myself, “I wonder what blasphemous outrage Smith is saying now.”
And I check, and sure enough, there’s blasphemous outrage, and I’m outraged. And I find that the outrage has worked like caffeine and I’m awake, and I burst out of bed and run into the next room to find my wife, and I say, “Listen to what Smith has said now,” and she listens, and politely she gets outraged with me, and now we’re both outraged, and the adrenaline rush of anger has woke me up and started my day, and I can chase it with a very large and very strong cup of coffee while I get on Facebook and exclaim: “I’m outraged.”
This has gone on for years.
What I don’t do when I wake up in the morning is pray.
•••
I have been angry for seven years. I don’t like to get personal but I must. Anger, like any other drug, is incredibly addictive and destructive. Righteous anger is a thing; Christ got angry; but you have to be incredibly holy for it not to destroy you. Christ knows: I’m not anywhere near that holy.
But the thing is, I have time. I don’t know how much; none of us know. I’m going to be 54 later this year—my grandfather was my age when he died. I don’t know how much time is left me. Maybe as many as twenty or thirty years, with grace and luck, but I’m old enough to be aware that it’s limited. I don’t want to spend the time I have left angry. I don’t want to spend any more time slowly destroying my life, slowly killing myself. Or wounding others who don’t deserve that.
I say this in public because I’ve done this in public.
And sad to say, I’ve let my anger keep me away from confession and away from Mass for a long time. The merits don’t matter—whether my anger is just or unjust. God can sort that out. I have been wrong to use my anger as a weapon against my spiritual life. When it gets that bad, it’s time to say a Rosary and let it go, and go to Confession and go to Mass.
Easier said than done. Pray for me.
Continued below.
In which I apologize to Dave Armstrong (and others).
I have spoken intemperately and unfairly to Dave Armstrong, and to many others. I apologize. Mea maxima culpa.
henryscottalt.com
