What is the point of anger? Evolutionarily, anger arises out of a conflict between one's desired reality and perceived reality, to provide the drive to impose one's will on the world. So why then, am I angry at my teachers every year?

It began in second grade; I was filled more so by fear of my first grade teacher: a stupid, stubborn, immature bitch who did not know how to teach any child with any sort of difficulties or exceptional qualities. Second grade I was introduced to a wonderful teacher who unfortunately left for maternity leave for the rest of the school year, beginning late October or early November. The new teacher was a young woman — not even 30 — who was kind and patient, but inexperienced and often incompetent despite her best efforts. Anger arose in me from her mistakes and failings that even I, as a second grader, could spot. What I find especially funny now is that at the end of the school year, when my second-grade teacher asked to give advice to her new students on a piece of paper, out of anger, I wrote that the teacher had anger issues. I projected my anger, out of anger, on another.

What an addicting thing anger is, yet to revel in it is not what the invisible hand of natural selection had in mind. Anger allows one to blame another force other than the self, which is, in a way, liberating. Why confront the fact that your desired reality is unrealized due to your own failings, when blaming someone else is so much easier and simpler?

Eighth grade, a multitude of problems collided. I was faced with my first real educational challenge in my first high school science class, where I was slapped with a C on a test for the first time, then a second time, then a third. I was endlessly harassed by the “friends” I chose, for characteristics I couldn't control. My history teacher, arrogant and insufferably boisterous, assigned ludicrous amounts of homework, consuming my thoughts. I fell further and further down the glaring pit of fury, alone. As a 13 year old, I felt mature enough to solve the problems myself, but in actuality, I wasn't mature enough to know when to ask for help. One day while working late at night, it all built up until I couldn't keep it inside me: with my red EXPO marker and all of my frustration, I stabbed a dent into my brand new whiteboard. Looking at the crater I had created, I realized I had become a failure: I had failed in controlling my reality. I now obscure that dent with a piece of paper; I never told my parents.

Throughout all of these tribulations, I never actually changed to face them. Other people needed to change. Every day they didn't, I just got more and more angry. They were at fault, but due to the fact that they probably don't self-reflect nearly as much as I do, they won't change for a while. There was no possible way to eliminate the gap between my desired reality and perceived reality. Anger manipulates you into believing that you are always correct, you always did everything you could, and it feels so great. Reflecting now, I could have adapted my strategies, actually tried to study or find new friends. At the very least, I could have adapted my mindset. All these things might have made me happier. But anger gave me a purpose — a struggle against an “other” — and despite the sorrow it began to bring me, I had become reliant on it.

When the struggle seemingly became fightable in my freshman year, I was able to become active in it. I had learned about hallway privileges before I even began high school. The idea of free periods at all was an unbelievable opportunity, but to be able to sit anywhere you wanted in the hallways while having no classes?! I was heartbroken to learn that I couldn't sit by my locker, where my mountains of binders found a home, because it was in the “T”, a region where mostly history teachers resided. I asked my friend who was a Class Council member to raise the issue at a meeting … and there was nothing. Perhaps I should have asked him again to raise the issue — maybe he forgot or thought I wasn't serious — but I was too far into my anger that by the time that thought had reached my mind, I had already drafted and sent a petition to the entire grade.

I blinked and somehow my campaign wasn't against the administration anymore, but against my peers on the Class Council in the form of the Vice Presidential election. My anger had taken me, quite rightly I should add, to push for changes in greater ways. My anger was now on a stage, but it seeped through the wood panels into the basement of sorrow. When I failed, the stomps of my initial frenzy made that stage collapse. Though I usually doubted my every move, I had no uncertainty about this. I knew that I would have been the best for the job; I was honest and passionate and had no ulterior motives.

Unlike in eighth grade, I did all that I could for that election; there was no scenario in which I could have won. It was like I was a mouse against an elephant. No matter how hard the mouse tries, it cannot win against the foot of the elephant. Sure, there could be some scenario imaginable where the mouse climbs up the elephant leg, running its little paws up the elephant's body into its ear, where it could burrow a hole into the eardrum to the brain, devouring it from the inside. But it's not the mouse's fault for not coming up with that, and it's also not the mouse's fault that the elephant turned it into mouse soup before it could even try.

Oh, the things I could have done with just a little bit of power! And my opponent took that away from me! My shallow, vapid classmates took that away from me!

Hopelessness: the perception that bad things are inevitable, that the possibility of good things is near zero regardless of one's own actions. You can only revel in untamed anger for so long before it turns to despondency. I hadn't acted on my passions for so long that when I acted, my universe had collapsed into that one battle, and when I failed, any hope of victory against the struggle was gone. And without that struggle, I didn't have a purpose to live for.

Only this year do I finally have teachers who I cannot possibly blame, both because of their character and a change of my own mindset. Ironically, the sorrow that built inside me for a decade, which did stem from my anger, was the motivation I needed to change myself. I say ironically because anger is supposed to be the motivating action, whereas sadness and its corresponding emotions mainly serve the purpose of alerting others for emotional help while dragging oneself down. With the little bit of motivation I had gained from misery of all things, I was able to learn my own faults. At my lowest point, I had no pride to lose. I was also able to learn that other people, the group that fills me the most with anger, are often the most effective way to improve a situation. Anger blinded me because I allowed it to.

I still am angry — at my school, my government, my economic system, occasionally at my friends. But now, I try only to keep anger when it is useful, and anger is only useful if you do not revel in it.

What is the point of anger? Evolutionarily, anger arises out of a conflict between desired and perceived reality, to provide the drive to impose one's will on the world. So why then, am I angry at my teachers every year?

It began in second grade: I was introduced to a wonderful teacher who promptly abandoned us for maternity leave. Our new teacher was kind and patient, but inexperienced and often incompetent despite her best efforts. Anger arose in me from her mistakes and failings that even I, as a second grader, could spot.

In eighth grade, my insufferably boisterous history teacher assigned ludicrous amounts of homework. The work consumed my thoughts, defined my reality, and there was only one man to blame. I sprinted further down the glaring cavern of fury, alone. While working late one night, I could no longer keep my troubles inside me: with my red marker and all of my frustration, I stabbed a dent into my brand-new whiteboard. Looking at the crater I had created on a previously pristine gift, I realized I had become a failure. I had failed in controlling my reality.

What an addicting thing anger is, yet to revel in it is not what the invisible hand of natural selection had in mind. Anger allows one to blame something other than oneself, and it's liberating. Why confront the fact that your desired reality is unrealized due to your own failings, when blaming someone else seems so much easier and simpler? So throughout all of these tribulations, I never actually changed to face them. Other people needed to change. Every day they didn't, I just got more and more angry. I could have altered my mindset, removed the emotions, and done the work. But the mixture of anger and pride deceives you into believing that you always do everything you can, and it feels so great.

When I learned I couldn't sit by my locker like other students because of its location, something completely out of my control, I asked my friend, a Class Council member, to raise the issue at a meeting … and there was nothing. Perhaps I should have asked him again — maybe he forgot or thought I wasn't serious — but I was so deep in my fury that I had already sent an impassioned petition to my entire grade before that thought could reach my mind. I had made enemies, not in the school administrators, but in my peers on the Class Council. My anger had taken me (quite rightly, I might add) to push for changes in greater ways by running for Vice President. My anger was now on a stage, but when I lost, the stomps of my initial frenzy dropped me into the basement of sorrow.

The more I reflected, the more I realized I had done everything right. I could blame my opponent, he did this only for his college application; I could blame my classmates, they were shallow and brainless. For all I know, it was rigged, but what could I do about it? You can only revel in untamed anger for so long before it turns to hopelessness and despondency. I hadn't acted on my passions for so long that when I acted, my universe had collapsed into that one battle, and when I failed, any hope of victory against the struggle was gone. Anger had given me a purpose — a struggle against an “other” — and now I was left without it.

As a senior, I finally have teachers who I cannot possibly blame, both because of their character and mine. Anger is supposed to be the motivating action, whereas sadness and its corresponding emotions mainly serve the purpose of alerting others for emotional help while dragging oneself down. But ironically, the emotional pain that sorrow brought me was the motivation I needed to change myself. With a little motivation and the loss of pride I had suffered, I could acknowledge my own faults. Anger blinded me because I allowed it to.

I still am angry — at my school, my government, my economic system, occasionally at my friends. But now, I try only to keep anger when it is useful, and anger is only useful if you do not revel in it.