Oh, That's Anger I've Been Feeling

I realized last night that I'm angry. Not an I want to beat the hell out of someone kind of anger but a low simmer that has been with me for years. Alone in the kitchen, not-reading an article about something or other, I felt angry. It was like noticing a dull ache and realizing I've been feeling it for so long that I've become accustomed to it

The past few days, looking at a glass and feeling it in my hand, I've had the urge to throw it. At the wall. Against the rocks. Through a window. I couldn't understand it. Was it curiosity? What would happen if... I'm betting that it's indicative of an anger inside.

I'm not about to go kill puppies and kittens. My anger isn't dangerous to others. I adore my kids, laugh and smile a lot, feel the deepest love for my wife, and often am happy. This isn't despair or depression. I've felt those before and this is not that. This is anger, something just beyond frustration.

The fact that I know I'm angry is good. I'm aware, not lost to fury. Anger can be good if I know it for what it is and do something with it.

So what to do?

First, I'm calling my therapist. We took the summer off with the thought that I would come back if I felt the need. I need help understanding this. She offers that help.

Second, I'll write. It feels good to realize what's going on and writing is realization in action. I've spent the summer digging into myself. I've been stuck, knowing only that I love to write and not knowing what to do with that. I haven't gotten unstuck because I haven't known what I was stuck on. I can start now with my anger and see from there what the issues are. Naming things helps. I don't have to kill the problems, make them disappear. Knowing their names is enough to get me started.

Getting started is how journeys begin.

I've been thinking too about these essays I write. Who am I to have the authority to write? Who am I to think that anyone cares to read? Why don't I keep things to myself?

I was about to write that these are good questions, but they aren't.

They are excuses not to write. They are the traditions I've had for remaining stuck. I'm looking to move forward.So I give myself all the authority necessary to write and write on.