“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned,” spoken by Zara in Act 3, Scene 8, The Mourning Bride, William Congreve
No truer expression has ever been penned. I have scorned a few in my life, and there were times that in comparison, hell would have been a vacation spot. Conversely, I have, on the rare occasion, been on the other side. I can attest that a woman wronged, or a woman who perceives a wrong, is not only traveling in the fast lane of the highway to hell, she is fucking crazy.
Hey, it’s all part of the healing process, right? Perhaps. When William Congreve pointed out the obvious in the above line from his poem, the temporary insanity of the maligned female was allowed to play out with little public notice…with the obvious exception of the matron monarch and those public beheadings. In my day of self-obsessed psychosis, obvious retaliatory embarrassment was limited to the two mile halo of the police jurisdiction at the city limits…usually. On a clear day, the not so cryptic musings on a water tower could be see from two counties. Today, unfortunately, the world knows, and you can’t take it back or claim redo due to temporary insanity.
Here is my advice for those I feel a familiar kinship. When finding yourself in front of a computer with a mental haiku or two, or in the decision process of trashy photos with children’s toys, ask yourself, “What would Sandy do?” If any woman on this planet had overwhelming public permission to take to the airwaves and air her scorn, it is Sandra Bullock, but she has chosen to temper her words along the high road and skip the televised float-trip down the River Styx. Not that at some point she won’t sit on Oprah’s couch or voluntarily appear on the cover of People, but at that point I would surmise that rational thought will have replaced the very human desire to get even…which at times only serves to give the impression of being unleveled.
So, own your scorn ladies, we’ve all been there and it’s a legitimate emotion. But remember, fame is fleeting, and emotional fame lasts for nanoseconds in the therapeutic form of Dancing With the Stars.