I know, but no philosophy will help that. Recurring "non-rooted" anger that is not the result of any fundamental delusion is basically an issue of psychological habituation and is best addressed in a therapeutic situation, IMO. That's the way I've been approaching it, anyway, and it's been helpful.
one is almost tempted to assert that most madness,ignorance,evil,and general physical discomfort ,is due to a lack of early frustrations which are the best of later control.I can say of myself that all my wrongness and weakness comes from a lack of correct suppression and discipline at some early time; and it would not have interfered with the best self-expression.
A flash..I remember a passing of S Dali in the chapter "how to discover one's genius" that fits quite well on the topic:
I was an anarchist,a nd privately composed hymns to my own will to power.one morning coming to school I saw a group of students yelling as they burned a spanish flag in the name of Catalan separatism.I was just getting into their group of students yelling as they began to disperse.I proudly thought myarrival was what had turned them,but a troop of soldiers rushing up on the double surrounded me as I was picking up the charred remains of the flag.I was arrested ,despite my protests,and indicted.but the court acquitted me,because of my age.my legend ,however,grew as a result,and in my contemporaries eyes I was a hero.yet,if I increasingly impressed them,I did nothing to gain their affection.I took delight in taking on boys smaller and weaker than I.pretending to be with my nose in a book,I would choose my victim.I remember one boy,especially ugly,who was busy eating achocolate bar,alternating each mouthful with a bite of bread .his placidity and the bovine regularity of his mastication drove me crazy.when I got near him,I slappped him as hard as I could,sending his snack rolling in the dust,and then ran away,leaving him speechless.
sometimes things went less well for me.one day I went over to a sickly looking kid with a violin.I patiently waited for him to put the instrument down to tie his shoelace,then suddenly kicked his behind as hard as I could,and trampled on his fiddle.unfortunately,the boy had long legs,and his wild fury endowed him with a strenght I would never have suspected.he caught up with me.a picture of cowardice,I threw myself on his knees and begged him to spare me,offering him twenty-five pesetas not to hit me.in his fury he did not even hear me and beat me up proper and good,knocking me to the ground and tearing out a handful of my hair.I began scraem,out of pain - and design.My hysteria had the desired result.my adversary was taken aback,and stopped,as a teacher who heard it all came over to us.he asked what had strated the fight.
with complete assurance,I stated that in smashing the violin I wanted to establish the supremacy of painting over music.they broke out laughing.
"how did you think you'd do that?"the teacher asked.
"with my shoes"
more laughing from all concerned.
"that's perfectly senseless," the teacher replied.
"to you and the fellows it may be,"I encountered," but my shoes don't see it that way".
and I was right,as I have since proven in my paintings by showing the realistic virtues of the shoe - which I even immortalized by putting it on women's haeds when Elsa Schiaparelli executed my hat - while I reproduced musical instrumets limp,soft,or broken,thus making a monument out of every detail of my existence,even the worst of them.
the teacher,floored by my answers,did not punish me,and was the subject of even greater admiration.the efficacy of my eccentricities began to be intriguing and my alledged madness appeared as proof of my extraordinary temperament.I realized that my delirium could convince people and subjugate them.It was easy to fool everyone about the origin and meaning of my actions,and thus create a beneficient confusion all about me.