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It was a Sunday. The day started easily enough for me. I had gotten up at my normal 5 am, made my coffee, did my journaling and Bible reading, got the kids up to get ready for church…. I felt fine. It wasn’t until I was making my morning smoothie that it hit me.
Anger. Seething anger.
Memories flew through my head. One memory in particular involving specific people. About something that happened over the last year. I felt instant unbelief about how I was treated. So much disgust about what they did. Frustration. I just felt mad. And angry. So, so angry. I wanted to pick up the phone and tell those people how mad I was and how they were responsible for my anger….
I really, really didn’t like the way it felt.
I didn’t want to be angry. But I was. And it confused me because I felt I was healing. I felt my kids were healing. I felt that, for the most part, I had dealt with what had happened to us. I was beginning to understand my part in the story and I was working on fixing me, the only person I could be responsible for. I was accepting it all. I felt good. I felt calm, most of the time. With the exception of this anger that would pop up. Usually from memories of things that happened.
I texted my therapist. “Rose, why am I so angry? I really hate this. What is wrong with me?” When I arrived at our next session she had the following sheets pulled up on her screen: