The Gift I Do Not Want

 Anger is a Gift.

There are days when the rage boils up, unbidden. 

I have spent so much time trying to understand the roots of my anger.  Introspection, rumination, reflection, on why I am triggered by certain events, feelings, words. And I do understand why I am the way I am. I know what I need, what I want.  I understand the things I yearn for, the things that would soothe the primordial beast within. 

The hardest part is knowing that some of those things, will never be within my reach. And that I need to grieve them, and let them go. 

It is the grief, and the letting go, that kindles the rage. 

There is that kernel of hope -- pure, beautiful, futile hope -- that continues to live, and prevents the fullness of grief. 

The hope that if I ask, just one more time, that I will somehow magically receive. 

And then I become ashamed of asking yet again for my needs and my wants, and can no longer voice them aloud. 

So I resort to hoping that perhaps, if I silently wish hard enough, my needs and wants will be recognized, and I will still receive. 

And then, because silence never yields results (as I well know), I am angry at myself, both for hoping, and for being unable to speak aloud. And also, angry at the knowledge that hoping alone is futile.

Let go.

Let it all go.

I breathe through the day -- one breath at a time, incrementally, as the hours tick by -- until the fire burns itself out into the embers that remain. Then I can move forward, until the fire flares another day. 

The anger does not help me. I do not want it. This fire is messy, smoky. It is not purifying. Yet.

Perhaps it still needs time. 

Let's give it time.