It's a low grade, what I used to call sick.
Because anger wasn't allowed, but sad was allowed. But then sad wasn't allowed, so all that was left was sick.
And so I feel sick, then sad and then finally after a meeting I realized it is anger, my old friend.
Yes.
Something is wrong.
I was abused. And I am angry.
I am angry at the people who abused me. They are jerks and worse.
I am angry at the people who were silent. I was the innocent sacrifice which allowed them to remain in denial.
I am angry, right now, at people in my life who remind me of those people.
I hope they rot in hell. And I will pray for you, so I won't be poisoned with resentment and live a hell on earth. So I can move from hoping they rot in hell, to hoping they find recovery.
I am angry I can't go to church without feeling anxious, terrified and wanting to leave. All those feelings I couldn't feel as a child, having to survive in an abusive religious environment, I am angry.
I am angry that there are bullies, jerks and evil in the world that delight and enjoy destroying beauty and innocence, simply because they can.
No, you don't get a pass if you were abused. So was I, and I didn't abuse others. I became a protector. What did you become? A monster.
I hate all of you and I no longer have to be around you. But I will still pray for you, so my hatred will not consume me and make me a monster as well.
Unfortunately, there will always be people like you. People who delight in destruction. People who take it out on those who are enjoying themselves and life. People who decide to destroy what is beautiful, just because they get a kick out of it.
Would you prefer security to love? Would you sacrifice your own child to save yourself? To protect your viewpoint of the world? What does it say about you if you do that?
What the fuck is wrong with us?
Just for today I will feel all my feelings, and allow them to pass.
Just for today I will observe myself with compassion, and let myself grow at my own pace.
Just for today I will be angry, and I will let it pass.
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