There are a few small costs to pay for the bliss of
living in the country. High on the list is that
rodents like it here too. The scrabbling sound of
ratty claws haunts some nights, and lately they've
violated whatever accords we might have had by
descending to our kitchen.

In the stillest hours of night, I heard the
unmistakable sounds of rodent foraging. I grabbed
the flashlight and went into the suddenly still
kitchen, and caught in the beam of light the little
monster froze.

I did too. Standing naked in the kitchen, I was at
somewhat of a loss of what to do next. Finally,
awash with fear and anger, I became a Rat Warrior.
I grabbed the broom, and C R A C K! My anger turned to
disgust, pooling with the blood on the kitchen floor.

Cleaning up the mess, I felt both victorious and
revolted. I'd never deliberately killed anything
larger than a spider. Some part of me felt brave, but
another part felt guilt. Not for killing the rat --
but because it was so easy.

I've lived much of my life afraid of the Rat Warrior
in me, that side of myself that reacts to fear and
discomfort with overpowering force. That craves
direct action over finesse. Usually that forcefulness
isn't physical, usually it's words or tone, it's that
first knee-jerk response of judgment and harshness.
Sometimes it's just in my head, or just in the rough
draft that I throw out after calming, but the force is
there and a frequent challenge to responding
intentionally versus reacting unconsciously.

The paradox of the Rat Warrior is that his decisive,
forceful, even brutal strategies are all borne of fear.
Fear of helplessness, fear of insignificance, fear of
ignorance. So seeking strength, the Rat Warrior
actually gives into fear, and creates it.

Thinking back, I remember the Rat Warrior taking over
when I was 12 taking boxing in Physical Education.
Matched with my childhood best friend, also named Josh,
I pounded him, brutally punching him in the nose.
Amist the blood I remember the hurt shock in his eyes,
the betrayal of lost childhood, an echo of the feelings
I'd bottled up inside.

Josh was much cooler, much more popular, than I was.
I never said anything to him nor tried to resolve my
feeling of being left behind, feeling betrayed by that
coolness. I tried to say it was "no big deal" and
pretend it didn't hurt. But in that moment of boxing,
the Rat Warrior spoke instead.

In that phase of my life, I was usually glad when the
Rat Warrior showed up. I felt strong and decisive.
Then I began to fear him. In my Senior year of high
school I met with a military recruiter. After scoring
my test, he literally stood up, put his mighty hand on
my shoulder and boomed, "Son, I want to make you a
Marine."

I felt the Rat Warrior bloom with pride -- and some
other part of myself tremor in terror. Not at the
thought of any external danger, but at the thought of
the Rat Warrior running rampant, unchecked by the
veneer of society.

It reminds me of my friend and colleague Mike Blondell,
trained to violence as a Navy Seal in Vietnam, he
spent the rest of his life learning to create peace
instead. I think Mike made peace with the warrior,
the killer, he had been. And from that acceptance he
became whole. My fear was, and sometimes is, that
after letting the Rat Warrior reign, I wouldn't have
the strength to become whole again.

Perhaps this began the second phase of my relationship
with my Rat Warrior -- a phase of hiding him away. I
thought that I could minimize that side of myself by
keeping it safely out of the light of day.

The blood on the kitchen floor makes it clear that
I've not expurgated my Rat Warrior. Being an
"emotional intelligence expert," learning to cry,
learning to love, learning to listen, none of these
has vanquished him. Again, not because I killed a pest
-- but because of the feelings and reactions unleashed
in the moment.

But maybe I've have grown up a little since punching
Josh in 7th grade, because even though the Rat Warrior
is scary and fierce, I no longer want to hide from him
or hide him away. Perhaps I'm coming to a third phase
of my life: I'm curious about him.

What kind of man is the Rat Warrior, and what does he
have to bring to this world? Even writing this I
start to cry -- tears relief, I think. It's so
complex and overwhelming for me to consider, and it
feels so good to ask the question. Curiosity is a
powerful force. It's helping me get past the
uncertainty and surface judgment, it's leading me to
keep asking, to keep learning in spite of the fear.

In the process, I'm beginning to appreciate that
sometimes I can be a Rat Warrior. Maybe I can learn
to integrate the different sides of myself, the caring
and the fierce -- to become a sensitive, insightful
Rat Warrior. Maybe that will mark a fourth stage.

This is an emotional and challenging journey. I am
still afraid of him. I'm afraid he'll get out of
control. I don't trust him -- I don't trust myself,
and I don't like that feeling. And I'm starting to
value him too, which is hard because I've invested so
much in pretending he is not the real me.

Deep inside I'm craving to feel that I'm ok even
though I am imperfect -- or that being a messy,
complicated, totally human person is perfect. I hope
curiosity and patience and a lot of chances to reflect
are leading me toward reconciliation. I'm struggling
to accept him -- accept myself -- and know that even
when he's afraid, the Rat Warrior is strong enough to
listen, to learn, and to love.


======================================================

This is an EQ Reflection from the Six Seconds
Emotional Intelligence Network. Please forward to
others, and please keep this part too:
©2004, Joshua Freedman, http://www.6seconds.org

Joshua Freedman is the Director of Programs for
Six Seconds EQ Network and an expert teaching
emotional intelligence. To learn how EQ can help
your school, hospital, business, or family, please
visit http://www.6seconds.org