I’m angry with this project – and with myself. I’m angry I can see the woman I want to be in the mirror and I can’t grasp her.
I’m angry I look like her (I less often sound like her) – I’m sometimes the spitting image of her, but I don’t feel like her.
I have a hard time standing up to people when they’re rude or critical. I have a hard time defending this blog.
I’m angry that I made this blog two months retrospective, so I’m always answering as to why I feel a way I don’t feel anymore.
I’m angry I have a cold I haven’t been able to shake for four weeks.
I’m angry about how much strength it takes to be vulnerable – and how tired I am. Can I be weak right now? Can I be petty? Can I throw a pity party for myself and blame the world for my disappointments?
I’m angry that God refuses to punish me. I would rather have been punished than made to be an example. I have to model what I wish others would have modeled for me. And I’m tired.
I’m angry Terry doesn’t love me.
I’m angry he thinks this blog is a public diary – the spilling of my guts – and not a credible self-reflection and journalistic endeavor, maybe even a public service.
I’m angry people don’t listen to me. I’m too young for people to listen to me and when I’m older I’ll be too old for people to listen to me.
I’m angry I’m not angry about real things.
I’m angry my teeth are crooked and I have a cowlick.
I’m angry I keep forgetting to buy nylons.
I’m angry at my misplaced anger.
And yet, I’m really proud of myself that I can admit to being angry – that I know being angry is normal and okay. And that’s why I write. Because I love so many people who don’t know that – and I watch them suffer the way I suffer. And that hurts the most.
The nicest thing anyone has ever said to me was when I was lying on our couch, rendered immobile from an anxiety attack and my sister, an aspiring nurse, said, “There is nothing wrong with you.”
She’s my sister – and she’s a nurse, so I believe her. And I hope readers believe me.
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