A short telephone conversation snakes its way through the hidden tunnels of your mind, unearthing experiences and reactions you thought you had put behind, made peace with, let go. Like a mole, blindly and relentlessly, burrowing in, upheaving mounds of emotion, leaving a void of anger underneath.
Being one-on-one with anger is scary, especially if you are not used to it. Anger is darkness; it’s complete vacuum, where familiar sensations of rationality and common sense are no longer within your power.
Anger doesn’t care about you or anyone. It feeds on your thoughts and fears, regurgitating them into a distorted reality. You follow it blindly, faithfully or rather faithlessly – for there is nothing else left to believe, nothing sacred.
Anger violates you; it rapes and mutilates your sense of self.
It sickens you and turns you inside out, until you wretch the vile gall of your abused ego. There is no sense of propriety – your worst and hidden is exposed.
Anger is your miscarriage; it’s the ugliness of an abortion – slimy, bloody, writhing unnaturally, still warm and living as it slides out of you. Looking at its convulsing body, you realize that it is, in fact, small and defenceless, and wonder how it grew into a monster within.
No one is to blame but you – for nurturing this ogre, feeding it your lowest emotions, basest thoughts, for making it a part of you.
The list of casualties grows; the victims of your rage are family, friends, colleagues. How much is lost? How much gained? Was it worth it? It never is.
The trauma of shame. The shattered shards of trust. The gaping void of regret and loneliness. Through the desecration of it all, a pair of eyes is peering from the bottom of your soul – the eyes of a victim or an abuser?..