ALL THE RAGE

Image taken by Celeste Jenkins-O'Reilly

My parents used to say I had a scream like a pterodactyl. Everything angered me as a kid. Eventually, I learned to cope and keep it in. I think getting a dog helped, maybe growing up in general.

My dear Jerks, let me get vulnerable. When I get angry, and I often don’t anymore, I get the urge to hit something. This is a scary thing to admit. People might not want to be around me if they knew, so I don't tell them.

Anger is a weird, stigmatized emotion we're expected to lock away. For happiness you can smile, for sadness you can cry—but what do you do when you're really angry? How do you express it in a healthy, non-violent way?

I set out to explore this at one of Syracuse's finest establishments: the iSmash rage room. They provide safety gear, things to smash and a room to do it in. It's kind of pricey—$25 for 20 minutes of smashing—and gives off the same vibes as a trampoline park.

I felt sort of stupid being there. Paying for the ability to express my emotions felt like confronting the ultra-consumer-late-stage-capitalist final boss. There was a bin full of Michelob Ultra bottles—ironically my beer of choice. Rage rooms are kind of a metaphor for anger in general; you can only show it behind closed doors.

I wasn't presently angry about anything when I walked in which felt lame. I'll just swing this bat at these bottles, I guess. It shattered into a million shards.

Something in me awoke. I still wasn't angry, but a tension began to release in my body. I threw a mug against the wall. Then another. I was smashing everything in sight at an alarming pace and smiling.

All the force behind each throw freed a tiny bit of tension. Before I knew it, I was out of things to break. The timer went off. I stood breathing heavily, surrounded by smashed glass, ceramic, wood and electronic pieces.

Did smashing shit solve my anger issues? No. Do I suddenly have a healthy relationship with my rage? Also no. But for 20 minutes, I got to express something I've been taught to suppress my entire life. I got to be violentreak things without being crazy.

Maybe that's worth the price of admission. Or maybe it's just capitalism figuring out how to monetize our emotions and sell them back in a safe, Instagram-friendly package. Probably both.

Either way, I'm definitely going back. That pterodactyl scream has been quiet for too long.