Epanorthosis (ep-an-or-tho’-sis): Amending a first thought by altering it to make it stronger or more vehement.
I was so damn mad. I wanted to take a deep breath calm down. No! I wanted to pound my anger into the ground and lower a two-ton boulder onto it. I was mad! I kicked the fence around my swimming pool. My flip-flop got stuck and I got even madder. I wrenched it loose and headed for the garage. I wanted to try out my new electric hedge trimmer. Maybe I was too mad. Maybe I would cut off my fingers. Maybe I needed professional help. Why was I so damn angry all the time? “Oh, the hell with it.” I thought, positioned myself in front of the overgrown Spice Bush, and pulled the trigger on the hedge trimmer. A little bunny hopped out from under the back porch and startled me. I dropped the hedge trimmer. I was on lock setting , so when I dropped the hedge trimmer and it landed on the bunny, it was still trimming. The bunny made an awful squealing sound as it was trimmed to death, right there at my feet.
Instead of crying and feeling really sad, I got mad at the bunny, who had made a mess of my shiny new hedge trimmer. I kicked the bunny’s remains across the yard into my neighbor’s yard and then angrily hosed the down hedge trimmer. As I rinsed off the bunny’s blood, I realized I was probably around the bend and needed professional counseling, and possibly, some kind of anger suppressing drug. I called the first psychologist listed on the web for my zip code: “Dr. Abraham Mezlaw.” I made an appointment for the next day.
I explained my problem. He told me my anger came from having expectations, which are fantasies about the future. As such, they are nearly never fulfilled. If I lowered my expectations, my anger would evaporate “like the morning mist.” I thanked him and he referred me to a psychiatrist who prescribed medication that would help curtail my expectations. I walked into psychiatrist’s waiting room. It was packed with obviously dysfunctional people—he was a real nutcase magnet. There was a woman waving a little American flag and softly saying “pigshit” over and over. There was a guy with a shoe strapped on his face with a bungee chord. There was a man in an electric wheelchair spinning around in circles. I started to get mad. Just then, I was called into Dr. Wellbeeski’s office for my session. I have no idea why I was put ahead of all the nuts in waiting room. He said to me: “So, you little piece of shit momma’s boy, I see you have trouble with managing the anger. I will prescribe you ‘Fuggit’ to keep our anger in check. Is there anything else you little namby-pamby loser?” I was so mad I wanted to run home and get my hedge trimmer and run it across his face. I bolted out the door and drove to the drugstore to pick up my “Fuggit” and get started becoming Mr. Placid, and forget about Dr. Wellbeeski’s insults.
I took a pill and sat on my couch lowering my expectations. The medication planted a voice in my head that said “No!” whenever conjured an expectation. Mt wife was 3 hours late coming home from work and she hadn’t called me. Normally, I would’ve been angry, but now I wasn’t as I heeded the “No!” in my head. That was just the beginning. My expectations became so low, that they pretty much disappeared altogether. I was a happy camper. Then, one day I forgot to take my medication. My expectations went through the roof. There was a knock on the door. There was a guy at the door and I asked him who the hell he was. He said, “You know me. I’ve been here almost every day for the past month for my upstairs workout with your wife. I pushed him off the porch and ran upstairs to kill my wife. She had cleared out the spare bedroom and made into a mini-gym. There were two treadmills, weights and a medicine ball. I put down the brick, kissed my wife, and ran downstairs and took a “Fuggit” so I could get my expectations down again.
My expectations plummeted, and I didn’t care. I was proud of myself for not killing my wife. I was making progress.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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