I have a secret.
I have anger in my bones.
Deep in the marrow,
Hot, burning grains
that grind and crunch with every move.
And in the darkest chamber of my heart,
it pulses with a sickly, green glow.
I dare not look at it.
It is hideous, I know.
I have seen it in others
who loved me with their anger.
It has sharp teeth and long claws
and will rip me to pieces
if let it from it’s hiding place.
But the monster grows in the darkness,
I must call to it
and name it friend.
I must look the Gorgon in the face
Or surely, it will devour me.
I have always been frozen by anger. I grew up with a mother whose anger came out of nowhere. I was with a man for twenty four years who terrorized me with his anger. I was a victim; the receipient of the anger of others. I struggled with depression for decades. I dared not fight back. I had seen anger. It was terrible, frightening, a destroyer. If allowed my anger out, it would devour me.
My husband and I are working through a rough patch just now. His grief over his son’s death shows itself as anger. And although it is not meant for me, I often bear the brunt of it. But for the first time, I know I don’t deserve it. And ironically, it makes me angry. For the first time in my life, I am not afraid to be angry. I realize anger is an emotion, that’s all. And I also know that I have many reasons to be angry – angry that my father died when I was nine; angry that I was never enough for my mother; angry that I spent twenty-four years with a man who made me believe I was worthless. I deserve to be angry. It is part of me. I recognize it; I embrace it; and I let it go. Anger becomes a monster only if you let it be who you are. I am not an angry person but I am a person who gets angry. And that’s OK.