Fighting for Joy
The truth behind our tantrums
Have you ever watched a 3-year old throw a full on tantrum? Like one where legs and arms flailing suggest muscle control but the rest of their body flops about noodle-like making it impossible to pick them up or control the hysteria? This full body protest is often accompanied by screaming and noises akin to feral monkeys instead of humans. Heavy breathing and overexaggerated tears signify a mere tactical pause in the madness, a moment to gather strength for the next round of fighting.
When not the responsible party, I’ve often thought “What are they fighting so hard for?” If I didn’t know better, I’d assume they were being kidnapped by child traffickers destined for a life of horror and no tv.
My ex-boyfriend was an excellent fighter. Our epic battles were known to go on for hours, until one or both of us finally caved…exhausted, covered in snot, and nowhere closer to resolution than when we started. He was a yeller, an attribute I now loathe. But more than that, he fought with the age old art of the mind fuck. He would logic me to death, badger me about citing specific examples of his so called transgressions, and acknowledge only intellectual argument, leaving my pent up feelings of abandonment, betrayal, and hurt with nowhere to go except back inside my soul. I learned a lot from him about how to wear someone down. Eventually, he won for good. I quit fighting, and then I left.
I rarely fight now, but there are times when I can feel that unexplainable rage bubble up. It has a voice, and that voice is loud. By nature, it’s a yeller, but with age has learned to control its volume, although not its tone. Once it takes over, its nearly impossible for me to shove it back under control, like one of those coats that’s supposed to fold up into its own pocket but despite sweat-inducing effort never actually fully fits and zips. Often this voice escapes over seemingly trivial issues - dishes left undone, sleep compromised by a dog or a child, workouts cut short, delayed, or interrupted. Inside, I feel like that toddler. There’s a deep yearning to flail, scream, cry…on repeat.
We could argue, with good rhyme and reason, that the fuel for this fight comes from a deep longing for our needs to be met, and that rings true. It’s also highly likely that at least one of us (toddler included) is hungry, angry, lonely, and/or tired, otherwise known as the HALT what you’re doing because you’re about to regret it mental space from which basic functioning much less empathy, compassion, and good choices become impossible. But I think it might be more than that. I think we’re fighting for joy. Not just any joy, but our joy.
There is joy in being full, calm, held, and rested. Joy in being understood and appreciated or simply left alone in peace when those things aren’t possible. Joy lives in the little things like a clean kitchen, a full night’s sleep, or a solitary run.
When we’re little, I think we know we have to fight hard for what we want most. It’s irrational and certainly inconvenient, but at 3, it all matters. At 20, the fire of indignance and injustice and uncompromising joy still burns but by 40? Well, life and love seem to have convinced us that all the battered bruises were for naught. Right up until that ignitor finds a saran-wrap covered spark (Watch Fried Green Tomatoes, people, for heavens sake) and an unbridled “Towanda!” escapes our throat and has to be held back from unleashing the torrent of words and wails that stand between us and our joy.
It’s intense.
But so is joy. Or, at least, it can be if we let it.
I haven’t let it in a long time. I’ve been fighting for a joy I’m afraid to feel. But damn, am I desperate to soak in it. I stand in the parking lot of my life and scream “Towanda!” at the sky and when that joy comes crashing down, I run back to the Buick I don’t actually have and hide in the safety of it’s boat-like volume.
What do you do when you actually win the fight?
I don’t know. But I want to.
Don’t try this at home, but I’m convinced it would be a fascinating experiment to offer a tantrum-ridden toddler the exact object of their desire smack in the middle of said tantrum. Would the hysteria stop immediately? Would all that fight simply dry up in the presence of met needs and granted wishes? I may be drafting a protocol here that no IRB will ever approve, but I have a hypothesis. My guess is that the fight would continue, in some capacity, long after the stimulus was satisfied. We’re so surprised by joy, especially when we’ve fought hard for it, that we almost don’t believe its permanence.
Joy is worth fighting for. It’s also worth accepting as real…earned…given…gifted…granted…possible…probable…won.
It’s worth communicating what you actually need AND want and breathing in the possibility that you just might get it. And the reality that you might not. Because that’s real too. There are some fights that are unwinnable and some opponents who cheat. Joy doesn’t live there. It’s like handing a toddler a 70-calorie pack of Welch’s fruity snacks. You and he both know that’s bullshit.
But when you get what you want…what you need…before the fight, in the middle, or frankly, ever, own it. Let that joy seep through to your very exhausted, sweaty, snot-covered bones. Lay on the ground and bask in it. Let it be your breath. Bottle it up in your soul and invite it to float up like smoke until your nose catches its scent on the breeze. And invite your opponent to lay down with you. They’re likely your love anyway, so it seems silly to create such distance between them and you and joy.
This is what I imagine its like to BE joy. And maybe once you are joy, there’s no reason to fight for it…or hide from it…anymore.