I am angry.
I am angry at my friend for dying on Xmas eve. Angry at god, angry at the Universe. Angry at myself for being angry. Angry that now her family will always think of Xmas differently. And so will I. Angry that I have to adjust my holiday schedule for her death. Angry that it bothers me. Angry that I am thinking of such stupid, selfish stuff as this.
Angry that as a single mom, I have never felt financially able to give my daughter what I wanted to be able to give her for Xmas – for 22 years now. Angry that I’ve bought into the idea that I must give her material things at Xmas. Angry that I might have raised a child who expects that. Angry that I never got what I wanted as a child for Xmas. Angry that I am so angry about these things – angry that I am so very petty and selfish to be so angry and so ungrateful.
Angry that there’s no significant other in my life right now and hasn’t been in the nearly two years since I broke up with my boyfriend. Angry at myself that I think I need/want a boyfriend. Angry that I don’t need/want a boyfriend. Angry that I couldn’t make that work even though I loved him. Angry that now he wants me back and that I sometimes even consider it b/c I am so lonely and horny. Angry that I am so picky in my choice of men. Angry that any old Joe-smoe won’t do for me. Angry that being a single mom and independent woman has caused me to become so very masculine in my life b/c I’ve had to do so much for myself that I will never be able to find a man more masculine than I – may never find a man so secure in his masculinity that it polarizes me back into my feminine. Angry at the world. Angry at Santa. Angry at the father aspect of the Divine Masculine who has let me down in every way throughout my life.
Angry at everything. Angry that my employer has scheduled a fucking “retreat” for all employees during the holiday season. Angry that “retreats” are never that; instead they are boring, annoying, stupid “workshops”, out of which nothing lasting and good ever comes. Angry that I am supposed to just go to this retreat and act like I’m okay with my holiday season being hijacked by a fucking “retreat”. Angry that he insists on calling them “retreats”.
Angry that my gut is still leaky and causing all sorts of body/life style issues that I am having to deal with even though I have been on a boring, restrictive, expensive diet for months now. Angry that I can’t eat out with friends in restaurants, therefore. Angry at the physical pain this gut thing is causing me.
Angry that my birthday was just another day this year. Angry that I couldn’t seem to make it more. Angry that I can’t eat chocolate, bread or sugar any more. Angry that my comfort is tied to food so much. Angry at my body. Angry that I am so old and so unsatisfied with my life and myself. Angry that I can’t seem to change my life fast enough. Angry that I am not making more money. Angry that I put so much importance on money. Angry that I can’t just get over myself and be happy for more than a few weeks at a time. Angry that I can’t be satisfied. Angry that I can’t just rest, can’t give up and stop working and growing and expanding – why can’t I just BE?
Angry that all of this is coming up now – during the death of someone I know, during the holiday season. As if everything is supposed to be put on hold for the holidays while we make-believe that everything is merry and bright. Angry that I am so very angry. Angry that this leaky gut is probably actually producing all this anger as it is clearing. Angry that I can’t sometimes tell the different between real anger and clearing, healing, really-connected-to-nothing-and-therefore-false anger that happens as this gut issue is healing.
Angry that I can’t seem to find myself inside this anger – I’d like to be able to own it and use it constructively. Angry that I am also sad. Angry that I want so much. Angry that Earth is so slow and patient when I am not. Angry that I’m alone. Angry that I doubt myself. Angry that I doubt everything. Angry that I let the healing-gut anxiety talk me into being anxious about things I’m not really anxious about. Angry that I’m angry. Angry that I’ve typed and looked at the word “angry” too many times now and can’t even tell it’s a word anymore – thank gawd for spell check.
I am angry.