Tonight I’m angry. Actually, angry may not be a strong enough word to convey the emotions I’m feeling but it’s as close as I can get I think.
Angry that the day started with trying to make it to work through a fog of tears… willing myself to take one more step after each one feeling heavy and slow. Angry at the way that I walk in the door at work and turn on the fake smile and cheerful attitude that hides what’s inside. Angry that I do this so well that barely anyone at work knows what I struggle with every day.
Angry that I see myself as too damaged and broken to have anything to offer another person; so I isolate and cut off new possibilities before they have a chance to falter from my inability to connect the way I wish I could.
Angry that it is another day of feeling like I am barely holding on. Angry that this is supposed to be “progress”. Angry that when I do reach out for help the response that I get now is “you’ll be fine”, dismissively and curtly. Angry that I am angry at that. I have pushed people away firmly in my pain so why am I hurt now that they give polite and distant support rather than trying to be close…
I’m angry that this pain and despair taints each day and colours every experience with grey. I’m angry that I can’t just “get over it” or decide to be “better”. Angry enough to feel like not wanting to try to explain to one more person that I AM trying. Anger doesn’t begin to capture THAT feeling.
I’m angry at how much I hate myself for being the way that I am. Angry at grieving. Angry at my emotions and at my feelings. Angry at how my reactions to situations are altered…. temper flaring unwarranted at times and a complete vacuum of feeling at all at other times. Angry that rage fills the spaces that joy should reside. Angry that apathy is the best that I hope for every day.
Angry that there have been good moments and even a few hours here and there of good; but that this fog keeps rolling back in, clouding any of the good.
I’m angry at Willie. Angry that he believed that what he did was the best option. Angry at the mental illness that destroyed him from the inside out, leaving an angry, self-destructive shell.
No, not just anger. Rage, fury and exhaustion. And scared. Scared that I will be as alone as I feel I’m becoming because of this grief and anger.