A.K.A. The Bitch

Sharon Haywood

No matter how hard I try, no matter where I live, I can’t seem to get rid of her. I know she’s family—my first cousin on my mother’s side—but the cliché that says, “blood’s thicker than water” doesn’t mean much to me. Her name is Anger, but when it’s absolutely necessary to call her by name, I prefer to refer to her as The Bitch. Some days, I pretend not to notice that she’s watches me from the ninth-floor window of her apartment, directly across the street from my eighth-floor living room window. On those days, she knows I feel good, confident, powerful. She’s knows it’s not worth the effort to come over and attempt any kind of small talk, so she doesn’t even bother to try. I’m pleased to tell you that today’s one of those days. But on other days, when my defenses are weakened, she’s much bolder. She has a knack for sensing when I’m sleep-deprived, overwhelmed, or desperately hungry. On those days, she follows closely behind me, clipping at my heels, her repugnant breath on my neck. Just one waft of her stench—a combination of stale smoke, oily sweat, and half-chewed food lodged between her teeth—is enough to cause my stomach to tighten and churn. The burning taste of acid at the back of my throat is her calling card.

Nine times out of ten, she shows up in the presence of The Rude, The Selfish, and The Unjust. Now, don’t get confused and think that The Rude, The Selfish, and The Unjust are friends of hers, because they’re not. Instead, they’re her energizers—she feeds off them. The Rude, The Selfish, and The Unjust give her strength. Anything that gives her something to gripe about makes her stronger.

Like yesterday, when I made the mistake of letting her in, which is more or the less the equivalent of giving her a free pass to go on one of her rants. Yesterday’s rant featured her plight to prove how useful she is in my life.

“Do you remember when I prodded you enough so that you finally slapped and cursed that creep who was rubbing up against you on that crowded subway car?” she said while blowing out a slow train of smoke rings in my face. The Bitch knows I still fantasize about drawing long on a Marlboro Light. “You should have kneed him where it really hurts.” To this day I’m not 100 percent sure if he was getting off or if it was just normal rush-hour crowds. I push the thought out of my mind.

“Or what about that day when you finally got sick and tired of all those people in the supermarket express line ahead of you with more than the allotted eight items? I was so proud of you when you told those jerks off.” The memory of me yelling at the obviously stressed-out mother of two and the elderly man makes me cringe.

“How ‘bout when I gave you the guts to chase down that punk who stole your purse? If I hadn’t been there you would have just cried like a baby and whined about how you were victimized,” she said as I marveled at the smoke escaping through the gaps in her grin. I never did get my purse back and I still ended up crying.

As a matter of safeguarding my sanity and minimizing her presence in my life I realized I needed to get to know her friends and her enemies. Her closest friends are Resentment, Arrogance, and Irritation. They’re like the “in” clique of high school senior girls that giggle and taunt The Uncool. I’m ashamed to say that on more than one occasion, I’ve actually invited them over to my place. We’ve also frequently visited my family together. However, I’m slowly learning how not to let Resentment, Arrogance, and Irritation cajole me into thinking their presence in my life is a good thing. Getting to know The Bitch’s enemies has been my saving grace actually; spending more time with her prime enemy has given me much reprieve.

Honesty—I owe him so much. It took a while for me to see his perspective but now I believe him when he says that she’s a coward. (Just an aside, but last week it suddenly made sense why she always excessively layers her clothing, even on those scorching, humid days. It’s like her armor.) Whenever I invite Honesty over, The Bitch bolts. She can’t tolerate being in the same room with him. His voice is deep and sweet. His mahogany skin is unblemished. His celestial pale blue eyes are penetrating. She knows he has the power to make her a peripheral part of my life. Honesty continually and patiently points out that when The Bitch gets to the root of what really aches her, she is nowhere to be found.

I’ve come to realize that the old saying that you can’t choose your relatives is true, but I can choose how much time I spend with them. These days, I do my best not to ignore her ‘cause that ignites her even more, like a child throwing a temper tantrum. Instead, whenever The Bitch shows up, I give Honesty a ring and pass the phone to her. It’s usually a short conversation.