Some problems are to be screamed out in the open, others to be tucked away deep into the catacombs of the mind, and a few to be forgotten completely. While members of the female sex in my family make vocal their problems, the men prefer to skulk by themselves. Maybe it’s society screaming “conform” to us, but that’s the way it has always been.

Some people punch walls, others bottle everything up, my mother throws a tantrum. Suddenly “everything in the world is out to get her” or “nothing is right” in her life. It comes in quick, five-minute spurts of swearing and crying and stomping. Usually it’s at home, when it isn’t convenient. It almost embarrasses me how emotional she can get sometimes. I think I ought to tell her that to spend too much time dwelling on unimportant matters drives one insane; to do it too often makes one seem childish, but somehow I can see that leading to an argument. I realize however, I am my mother’s daughter and I often parallel her actions when I’m angry or frustrated.

The chief use for yelling and screaming is to alleviate the matter; to let everyone know not to mess with me; and to blow off a little steam. Most of the time, I get upset with myself. It becomes, “I’m so stupid,” or “I will never accomplish anything.” Whether it’s a tough math problem or a relationship problem, a computer error or something I shouldn’t have said, the anger seeps in. I realize that my way of dealing with problems is a bit childish and self-degrading, but it works for me.

Dad always handled his difficulties differently. He would bottle it up. He solved his problems by getting in the car and driving away from them. His philosophy in life was, “it will work itself out.” This seemed to bother my mother, and the tantrum would start once he walked out the door, except then it was different. She would cry, not scream, and cook, not stomp. As much as I followed my mother in what she did when she was angry, my brother did the same with my dad.

When he lived at home, Matt would lock himself into his room. No one ever knew what he did in there. The only way we could even tell if he was angry was to check the door to see if the lock was fastened. Even now I have no knowledge of what deep-seated emotional problems my brother might have. He seems to think that he can handle it by himself, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it stays that way.