Uninvited Rage

What happened? Why are you stuck? These are questions asked by my therapist. We were talking about how, for awhile, I wrote every day. Every. single. day. And now I don't. I just quit.

Well, I am in the anger stage of grief. And I don't want to be. I don't want to be angry. at Dad for leaving me, but I am. I don't want to feel hatred and rage toward the brain surgeon who cut him open and let his brain bleed and not recover. But I am. I don't want to be angry at Dad for getting on that 4-wheeler and wrecking and laying facedown in the dirt, inhaling that damn dirt that grew that fatal bacteria that invaded our lives and took over and ruled over us. BUT I AM. Angry. Rage-filled. Bitter. Hateful. Full of bubbling, brewing, festering, infectious RAGE that at any moment could spill over and cover my entire world with a bitter plethora of colorful expletives and the stench of toxic emotion. I am so fucking angry.

I have been aware of this. But I don't want it. I have viewed it as something to ride out. like a storm. But it's not something I will ride out by ignoring it, by just knowing that it is there, and yet pretending to be capable of living a life of of peace, a life of honesty.

I am going to have to embrace it and let it overcome me. Consume me. I will need to let go of control and become submerged in it. Or at least in sort form of it. I will have to accept it and surrender to it. And let it wash over me.

I guess I am scared of that. First of all, I don't want this. I don't want to be consumed by anger and rage that I logically don't believe. It's not Dad's fault. It's not the surgeon's fault, no, wait, that one I don't fully believe. In this regard, I push down my feelings because my family is of a pacifist background and will never sue this man for malpractice. But I don't know that this wasn't some sort of carelessness by an overly-confident (cocky would even by an appropriate adjective) surgeon. But I have tried not to be angry about this because I see no resolve and that is even more frustrating. But I see where all this pretending has gotten me. Festering. Smelly. Infected. Toxic. Stuck.

But to go on, I don't WANT to be mad at my Dad. But he is the one who got on that 4 wheeler that day. He is the one who left me to face the rest of my family without him. He is the one who... oh hell, he fought so FUCKING hard to stay here, even when he was in so much pain and decay, see... I just can't blame him. I can't let that anger just live. Because he didn't want to go. He fought like a Son-of-a-bitch to stay. He loved life. He loved us. He wanted to be around for a much longer time.

I want to end this with that sweet summary of how I've faced this, walked through it, and now I get to experience that gratitude and know acceptance. But no. I'm not there. I am still angry, bitter, broken, and full of rage.