Skip to main content

The Anatomy of Anger

As a writer, one thing that has always caught my attention is the remarkable adaptability of the Brazilian Portuguese language. It is highly versatile — elastic to the point of facilitating the expression of complex thoughts and emotions in both speech and writing.

But there is one word that many people tend to avoid, either because they feel it is too strong or because they want to suggest that what they feel is not quite so intense.

Time and again, I have seen patients arrive fuming with anger over their daily struggles, yet when confronted, they deny feeling angry. They describe it as something else — indignation, frustration, irritation, annoyance, resentment — when, in reality, they are simply angry.

This is partly due to the process of rationalisation, where we seek explanations to make sense of our thoughts and emotions.

However, anger is anger. It is not healthy to ignore an emotion that exists precisely to drive adjustments in our daily lives, pushing us to tackle problems through effort. That is healthy. That is normal. It is worth noting that patience is a valuable exercise in civility, but it does not eliminate anger — it merely channels it in a more measured way.

Anger, however, is different from rage. While anger is an emotion that triggers transformation, rage is an excess often linked to heated conflicts.

It is important to recognise that well-processed anger does not lead to resentment because it has served its purpose in resolving a situation. When this resolution does not occur, resentment takes root — and then come all the adjectives and adverbs used to justify it.

One of the most curious aspects of language is how, here in Brazil, we hide behind diminutives to downplay serious issues. A little flu, a tiny ache here and there — almost as if to say it is insignificant. But this is nothing more than denial, which is unhealthy because it distorts reality beyond reason. Perhaps, I speculate, we have missed many opportunities to improve our country precisely because we refuse to acknowledge our anger — or, should I say, our little daily dose of anger.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Progressive Misreading of Silence

At 5, I entered rooms like a murmur. I was already listening for something behind the noise — something older than voices, softer than footsteps. “He’s such a well-behaved boy,” they said, smiling with relief. But what they mistook for virtue was only quiet intuition. I was not good. I was attuned. At 11, I had mastered the art of presence without weight. I could sit by the window for hours, watching the wind pass through the trees like thought through the body. “He’s quiet,” they would say — gently, but with a trace of discomfort. They couldn’t name the feeling of someone watching without need. At 17, I was called “mature.” But maturity is not a virtue — it is a scar. I had already seen the shape of endings before others saw beginnings. Friends came to me like tide to stone, hoping to be held. I held them, yes — but not always with words. Sometimes silence is the only honest offering. At 24, my stillness no longer charmed. The world asked for brightness, momentum, performa...

On Loyalty and the Quiet Companionship of Pippen

I have a cosmopolitan friend who, by the mercy of chance — that discreet and impartial arbiter of destinies — was born in Serbia. Industrious beyond measure, he treats work not merely as obligation but as a quiet philosophy, a means of aligning oneself with the silent order of things. And he is a companion of a rare kind: steadfast, discerning, and, above all, loyal. His name is Pippen. We first crossed paths in the now-vanished days of Google+ — that fleeting agora where, for a moment, the world’s geeks entertained the gentle delusion that they might, in time, inherit the Earth. It was an age of bright aspiration, tinged with naïveté, yet marked by a peculiar fellowship that transcended all borders and conventions. Among Pippen’s many virtues, loyalty stands pre-eminent. Not the clamorous, performative loyalty so fashionable in this restless age, but the quieter, unwavering kind — the loyalty of one who stays. It is revealed not in grand gestures but in small, consistent a...

What Strength Truly Means: A Letter to Men

There exists, hidden in the quiet undercurrents of our culture, a grand illusion: that manhood is synonymous with silence, that strength demands the concealment of pain, and that the measure of a man is his ability to endure without faltering. Such ideas pass through generations like whispered codes, accepted without question, repeated without reflection. And yet, when held to the light of reason, they wither like old parchment, for they are not truths, but relics of fear. It must be said — and said without apology — that you are allowed to speak of what has wounded you. To give voice to pain is not to surrender to it, but to name it, to limit its dominion. Silence may seem noble in the moment, but over time it hardens into a cage. Words, carefully chosen and honestly spoken, are the first instruments of freedom. You are allowed to weep — not as an act of collapse, but as a testament to your humanity. Tears are not the language of the weak; they are the body's recogniti...