A spark of something
seeming mild, a nothing here,
until it lands just
so and I combust
into the silence between
us (how sorry I am, what
we’ve seen us through)
corroding me from the
inside out, until I burn
off, burn down, leaving
only flakes of rust,
a trace of salt.
Who or what creates anger within you?
What purpose does anger serve for you?
How does your body feel when you’re angry?
New pattern I’ve been contending with: physical pain is tapping into some deep, long-suppressed rage (while also keeping fight/flight/freeze mechanisms activated). Of course, it’s also adding its own fuel, novel insults here and there as I come to grips with this so-called “new normal.”
Anger isn’t my default – passion, intensity, righteous indignation (when I’m feeling up to it), sure. Fear has been the governing influence on my wiring. I think I learned quite young, and quite clearly: your anger has no power. Don’t bother with it. You’ve nothing to be angry about anyway.
Now, though, it takes virtually nothing to trip that circuit. I know how I’ll react to small frustrations, and whether something bigger is really at issue (or whether I really am just pissed off about the dishes). I know exactly which subjects, people, dynamics, etc., are likely to hit at an angle that allows them entry into this place. I know when I’m primed to explode.
I know, but I can’t stop myself. It’s terrifying. I hear myself scream from inside the firestorm and I don’t recognize my own voice. It takes everything I have to not hit, throw, slam, rip, destroy. And afterward, so deeply shameful.
Because I’m taking it out on the one who deserves it least. The one who swears he can take it, that I couldn’t possibly push him away, that we’re going to spend forever someplace with a garden by the sea. The one who’s saved my life as much as he insists I’ve saved his.
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