Anger

I hesitate to write about my anger because I want you to think I'm nice. I don't want you to think I have "anger issues." I don't want you to think I'm...less. Less...female? Less...hm. Something. Some personality ideal I've created in my head. Because I want you to like me! Really, really LIKE me!

And I am not likable. It is painful to write, but it is the truth, and in facing mental illness, you've got to be truthful. That sucks. It requires that I look ugly and mean.

This particular anger is ugly. It was touched off by an event, a real ocurrence, something that truly does call for feelings of hurt, of betrayal, even rage. It saturated my life to the point of choking me. It finally forced me to open my eyes a bit, and it lifted that gray veil just long enough for me to say, "Fuck. We have a problem."

The first night I thought it just might not be "normal" was after I'd stuffed myself to the gills with McDonald's and Dairy Queen, and possibly also pizza, although by that point it was impossible to remember. Funny thing, all that food hadn't fixed the searing hole in my chest. I bounded off the couch where I sat in a stupor, ripped open the freezer, yanking the icebox violently out and chucking ice cubes as fast and furiously as I could into the shower. I screamed epithets, called names, and plotted sociopathically.

Ugly.

This wasn't right. This wasn't me. I'm not morally superior to anyone else, but my better Self knew that my brain was somehow betraying me, that this was a piece of my puzzle.

I am better. Not perfect, but I am better. I breathe a lot. I mean, I watch myself breathe a lot. I do yoga; there isn't a way to accurately express how much a yoga practice alters your mind and body, your entire outlook. Just the act of making appointments with therapists and doctors had the effect of lifting the guilt of self-damage, and added hope to hopelessness.

And I keep swimming.