I have been thinking about my anger lately. I once compared it to a giant knotted ball of string. It’s all twisted up inside of me. The beginning is hidden, the ending is hidden. At first it seemed impossible to unravel.
At first it was impossible to unravel. I was impatiently pulling and only making things worse. The best way to unknot a ball of string is to be patient, deliberate, slow. You have to loosen things up and work from different angles until it starts to make sense.
Is my analogy getting too thin? I’ll stop.
I’ve been working on and thinking about my anger for a long time. I wasn’t really sure I wanted to lose it. I’m still not really sure.
But I can’t keep hanging on to it. I have to at least lessen it. I’ll probably never be truly free from it. But I can try.
I always had this idea that my life would be fair. I know that sounds childish. Life isn’t fair. We all know that.
But I thought it would be balanced. Or at least have a point.
I thought, if I had this terrible childhood, I would at least have good friends. But I don’t have good friends.
I thought, if I had bad friends, I would at least have good boyfriends. But I didn’t have good boyfriends. In fact, my relationships have been worse than my childhood.
I thought, if I had abusive boyfriends, I would at least have mental and emotional health. But I don’t have emotional health. And who can blame me with my childhood and my relationships?
And I thought, if I had a terrible childhood, bad friends, abusive boyfriends, and poor mental and emotional health, I would at least have physical health. But I don’t have that either.
I’m not saying I am ungrateful for the things I do have. Because I am not. I know I have some great things in my life. And I do appreciate them.
But it isn’t fucking fair!
I guess, I thought… I don’t know… that the universe owed me… something. Which is stupid and immature and entitled. And it makes me feel angry.
I mean, who am I to expect anything from the universe. I am insignificant to the universe. It doesn’t even know I exist. My co-workers and family hardly know I exist.
And the thing is, if I believed there was a point to it all, it might make me feel better. If I thought there was some meaning or purpose to what I have gone through. But I don’t. And it makes me feel angry.
And the more I go through therapy and work through these issues. The more I can see my parents in a sympathetic light. The more I can see what impelled me to date the men I dated. The more I understand myself and my life. And it makes me feel angry.
But none of that makes me feel better. And it also doesn’t help with this feeling I have that I deserve something good in my life. That I deserve good things and people.
And I just realized that the longer I go without good things happening, the more unsure I am that I do deserve it. And the more afraid I am that my life is always going to be like this. And it makes me feel angry.
And I am so tired of my life being what it was. I am so scared to keep making the same mistakes. I am so afraid I’m never going to learn my lesson. And it makes me feel angry.
I have cried harder than I think I have ever cried in my life while writing this. This is what I am afraid to talk about. I am afraid that this makes me a whiny, selfish entitled jerk. And maybe I am.
But it feels so good to say. So good to get it out. I just re-read this piece, immediately after typing it, for typos, and actually am now laughing. It sounds so silly and immature. But I guess admitting it will help me to get over it.