Why Am I So Angry? (Part 1)

This stupid hose isn't moving.

I yank it harder, which obviously doesn't help.

Fine.

Now I have to walk all the way back over to the stupid spigot just to make sure it's actually turned on.

It is.

Of course it is.

I walk back.

Now the hose is stuck on something.

Another goddamn thing.

My back hurts. The mosquitoes are biting me everywhere. I'm sweating. The hose won't reach where I need it to reach, and suddenly I am furious.

Not irritated.

Not mildly annoyed.

Furious.

Why does everything have to be such a process?

Why does everything have to be so hard?

Why does something always have to be a problem?

And why, for the love of all things—

am I so angry?

Shit. Maybe this isn't really about the hose.

But knowing what it isn't about doesn't tell me what it is about.

So my mind goes looking for an explanation.

What is wrong with me?

Why am I like this?

Except...

Wait.

Was I like this last week?

I don't remember being this angry last week.

The hose didn't suddenly become more annoying. It's always getting caught on things.

The mosquitoes have been trying to eat me alive all summer.

So what changed?

Sleeping normally. Check.

Eaten recently? Check.

Water? Could always be better, but nothing unusual there.

Hormones?

Maybe.

I don't know.

I just know this feels awful.

I don't want to be angry.

More than that, I don't want to be an angry person.

And there it is.

The annoyance begins turning into something heavier.

Is this how my kids are going to remember me?

Is this just my life now?

Is there anything that can actually make me happy?

Right now?

Doubtful.

Ever?

I don't know.

And once my brain has been given permission to catastrophize, apparently we're going all the way.

Is this just what happens as women get older? We get mad?

Did my husband do something?

Nothing I can think of.

Certainly nothing that would explain this.

The house is a mess.

The kids are loud.

The lights feel loud.

Everything feels like it's rubbing against skin that's already raw.

But I don't know why.

There's something here.

Something I can't put my finger on.

And not being able to find it is making me even angrier.

Ugh.

I know what I need to do.

And I super, really don't want to do it.

Because I know myself well enough to know that when everything starts feeling like the problem, there's usually a problem I haven't found yet.

Or haven't wanted to find.

Fine.

I get my notebook.

A pen.

I sit down.

And I am so fucking pissed off about having to do this.

I hate this.

I write it down.

I hate this.

Again.

I hate this.

My pen digs hard enough into the paper that it rips.

Oops.

Apparently I really am that mad.

And then—

I'm crying.

Not a few tears.

Bawling.

The kind where your face gets hot and your nose starts running and you couldn't pretend you're fine if someone walked through the door right now.

Because underneath all that anger—

I'm hurt.

I'm still so hurt.

And I didn't know it was still this bad.

I knew it was there, I guess.

I still think about what happened sometimes.

But I'd tucked it somewhere far enough away that I could keep going.

It happened years ago.

Life moved on.

Everyone moved on.

So I thought I had too.

But the second I get anywhere near it, it hurts like hell.

The people I thought would be there for me when I really needed them...

weren't.

I was in one of the most vulnerable, helpless seasons of my life.

I needed help.

I even asked for it.

Something I don't usually do.

And instead of feeling supported, I felt guilty for needing anything at all.

Even writing that makes something inside me immediately start arguing the other side.

Maybe they're right.

Maybe I haven't been there enough for them to warrant that kind of support.

Maybe they were dealing with things I couldn't see.

Maybe they didn't have anything left to give.

Maybe what I was asking for really was unrealistic.

Maybe it was too much.

I can find a hundred explanations if I want to.

I can understand their perspective.

I can extend grace.

I can remind myself that people are complicated and relationships are complicated and everyone has their own lives and limitations and pain.

And still—

somewhere underneath all of those reasonable, compassionate explanations, another part of me says:

Fuck you.

Oh.

Well.

I guess I know why I've been so angry.

I wish I wasn't.

God, I wish I wasn't.

I wish life and my relationships could just go on like nothing happened.

I wish I could go back to not knowing what I know now.

I wish they hadn't shown me something about our relationship that I really didn't want to be true.

Mostly, I wish I could just get over it.

Because it's been years.

Shouldn't I be over it by now?

I don't even know what I'm supposed to do with it.

Talking about it feels pointless.

They won't understand.

Or they won't care.

Or they'll have their own explanation for why what happened wasn't really what happened.

So what's the point?

Why am I still holding onto something I can't change?

I hate this feeling.

I want it gone.

And apparently I've been trying to make it gone by pushing it aside every time it comes close enough to hurt.

It's not that important.

They probably didn't mean it that way.

Other people have bigger problems.

I need to let it go.

I need to get over it.

I need to be over it.

So I push it back down.

And for a while, maybe I am okay.

Until a hose gets caught on something.

Or someone needs one more thing from me.

Or the house is too loud.

Or I spill something.

Or I can't find my keys.

Or somebody asks me a perfectly innocent question and irritation flashes through me so quickly that even I wonder where the hell it came from.

Maybe that's the part I haven't understood.

I kept thinking the anger was the problem.

Something ugly growing inside me.

Evidence that I was becoming someone I didn't want to be.

But maybe the anger wasn't appearing out of nowhere.

Maybe it was landing on things that had nothing to do with it because I wouldn't let it land where it belonged.

Because that would mean admitting I was still hurt.

And being hurt is harder.

Anger lets me slam a cabinet.

Hurt asks me to admit that I needed someone.

Anger lets me blame the hose.

Hurt makes me remember what it felt like to ask for help and not get it.

Anger feels powerful.

Hurt feels like sitting at a table with tears dripping onto a notebook, realizing something mattered to me much more than I wanted it to.

I don't know how to make that hurt disappear.

I don't know if I'm supposed to forgive.

Talk about it.

Accept it.

Change the relationship.

Let something go.

Stop letting something go.

I don't know.

But I do know ignoring it isn't working.

Because I'm getting angrier.

Not necessarily at them.

At everything.

The mess.

The noise.

The husband.

The kids.

The email.

The person taking too long in front of us.

The stupid hose wrapped around the stupid planter for the third stupid time.

Why is this making me so angry?

Well, sometimes the thing we're reacting to isn't the thing that's causing the anger.

It's just the thing that finally brushed against it.

So, what's really underneath all of this?

-Julia