Dear Anger,

I have been waiting to speak with you, though you are not nearly the least. I’m eager to speak to you because I don’t want to keep living this way. I want to understand better where I am today and what you do to me, and hopefully, by saying my peace, I might come by some peace from your pollution and noise. Where am I going? How did I get here? I used to live with myself better. I used to laugh more and smile more and sing to myself more. I think I suffer more than I let on even to myself. And, when I suffer, I go all quiet. I don’t want this. I don’t want to suffer in silence. I want to set loose all my fears. I want to see this, whatever it is, understand this, and find some door to open where I can breathe, where I can ease, where I can find my smile and my laugh and my sing-song hope.

But what happened? What am I so afraid of? Why do I get so angry? Money makes me angry. I’ve said that. I don’t need to be rich but I’ve decided that I want to be. There’s too much paperwork and administration with poverty. I’m particularly angry when I don’t have any money. I’m angry when I don’t get paid for work that I’ve done. I’m angry when I’m underpaid, underestimated, under-appreciated. I’m angry when I have to chase work for money. I’m angry when I have to buy a cheaper quality of bread than I would normally like. I’m angry when I have to postpone buying underwear. And my own addictions and weaknesses make me seriously angry. Too much sleep, too much apathy, too much smoking. Anger, my own anger, makes me angry too. Sometimes I’m angry at myself for being angry. You, Dear Anger, become the snake that eats itself and shits itself out. I hate when I’m angry because I’m angry.

I’m angry because I’m afraid, lonely, insecure, envious. I’m angry that these things make me behave irrationally, selfishly, badly. I’m angry that I have allowed these malfeasant companions to bring up such surprising and horrible bouts of jealousy, possessiveness. Anger, like Envy, like Insecurity, is another kind of dissatisfaction. I’m angry most of all when I am not the person I think I am, when I am not the person I think I should be. And I’m angry that I’ve joined you here, dear Anger, that I’ve spent so much time with you, that I’ve accepted your vile company.

I am not myself. I don’t want your company any longer. You make me weaker. No, I should be fairer. I allow you to make me weaker and tired. I need you to understand I don’t want you anymore. I can barely remember when you came along. You crept in like winter, bit by bit, and stuck to me when I wasn’t paying attention. You’re a terrible habit. You’re a horrible thing to become used to. You know you have remade me. But you also know I am not forgotten, I am not beaten. It’s still summer in my mind, in my heart, I think. And when you leave me, when I send you out, I will recover myself. I will recover my breath and my blood and my calm. And I will recover my spirit and my fun and, yes, my hope too.

Yes, of course, I can’t do everything all at once. But it is useful to realize, to say too, that I’ve had enough of you. You waste my time. Anger is another addiction and hate, another fix, and we have just one life to live. I haven’t the time to entertain you. True, I will not wake up tomorrow, I’m sure, without envy, without fear, without my well-accustomed insecurity, and without your neutralizing company either, Dear Anger. But know this, I am watching you. And since it is evident that I must have once invited you in, I need to make it official. You will leave. And I will be just fine without you.

SS