Anger is a miserable houseguest. When it wants to pull you to participate, it does not take much for it to convince. When it won’t leave you alone, it clings like an annoying rival who has used you for its stores of energy and display, leaving you depleted, self-loathing, and frustrated.
Of all of these, the worst feeling is frustration. You have tried to placate it. You have jumped through all the hoops until you were depleted. You have self-sacrificed like a good martyr hoping to win it over while risking your own health. Ultimately, she is a troll. A snake. A crocodile that cries.
In the end, they get under your skin. And like any decent human being, you try meditating. It is pure rubbish. Talk to a Buddhist, and he will wish a vengeful karma on someone he feels has shafted him. Talk to a Christian, and they’ll invariably get fed up with your problems. Talk to a 14-year-old, and she makes Anger look like a sissy. Such are the conditions we humans find ourselves confined to.
Is there any respite? I cannot find it. I have been alive now, not enjoying any moment of it, for half a century. I have a lot of negative self-talk. I have become spiteful, petty, and deeply vengeful. I have become that ball of Anger–that wretched, infiltrating house-pest. I have lived with it for so long, I’m ready to strangle the people now long gone while they turn in their graves.
These are dark thoughts. I am sorry I exposed this side of myself and yet how can I not? If I do not write these things, even should nobody else read them, I am bottling up hate for another season and it will become a poisonous brew. I would rather you normaloids hate what I write and have it strike a chord with 0.0001% of the population than that I never, in my twisted but sensible irony, let Anger go.