In July 2001, Tim McGraw had a hit single called “Angry All the Time.” It was from his Set This Circus Down album, and it was a cover of a song originally written and recorded by Bruce Robison in 1998.

The song was about a marriage falling apart. A man remembering the woman he loved, a woman who had changed beyond his recognition. The chorus went:

And you ain’t the only one who feels
Like this world’s left you far behind
I don’t know why you gotta be
Angry all the time

I had to Google all the details about the album, the singer, the songwriter. I didn’t remember any of those things, or most of the song’s lyrics. I didn’t remember that the song talked about how the couples’ grown sons are the spitting image of their mother and how the husband hopes “someday they can see past what you have become.” How it hurts him to think about how his wife used to be, “for the light in your eyes was gone.”

But I did not have to Google the verses of that chorus. Those words have played through my mind a thousand times over the years. Those lines, infused with all of the heartbreak and poignancy of the entire song, have been a tiny cautionary tale for me.

Anger makes two great promises. First, like any temptation worth its salt, anger promises that it can be a virtue. Anger promises that it can get things done.

Life feels out of control? Not when I’m angry. If I’m angry, then I’m in charge. I’m strong and fierce and takin’ names and gettin’ things done, right? At least, that’s the promise.

That’s the promise I saw around me, the promise I wanted to believe. The angry woman was everywhere. Angry at children. Angry at men. Especially angry at men. Especially, especially angry at the one particular man that she willingly partnered with in life.

I wanted to believe her virtuous appearance. I heard the razor-sharp, caustic tones used to straighten children out and keep up the appearance of obedient perfection. I wanted the appearance of obedient perfection. I heard the stories of exasperating, unhelpful husbands, and the brittle frostiness that didn’t relent until they shaped up. I found myself trying the same approach.

And you ain’t the only one who feels
Like this world’s left you far behind
I don’t know why you gotta be
Angry all the time

But there was that little chorus in the back of my mind.

Anger had another promise for me, though. When the problem couldn’t be solved, when I wasn’t in charge and I couldn’t get a single name or make anything happen, anger promised to make it better.

All those painful, challenging emotions that swirl just below the wounded surface? Fear and worry. Disillusionment, regret, sadness, anxiety. Anger promised that it could take away their pain. It could fling up walls against those other emotions. It could create a barricade to hold them in and keep them from overwhelming.

Worried about the decisions a child is making in their life? All too aware of the limits of my own influence? Those feelings are awful. Easier to just be angry at the child.

Scared about difficulties my spouse is facing? Feeling disillusioned and sad about the way the world can treat a person? That feeling of helplessness is the worst. More comfortable to just be angry at him.

Because I hate those other emotions. I don’t want to deal with them; I don’t want to feel them. Easier to just be angry. Angry at the person who is engendering the emotions, angry at whoever is in the vicinity, just angry.

I don’t know why you gotta be
Angry all the time

My mind still plays that chorus for me. At least monthly. Sometimes more often. Because my heart still desperately wants to believe the lies. My heart wants to believe that anger is the virtue and the shield that will make life easier, less painful. I know it’s not true; I KNOW it’s not true. But clearly, I still need to be reminded.