(8) angry.

ANGER. Weird word. Anger for me is like an emotional fever, indicating that something isn’t right, that I’m fighting something. What is it now? The last thing I want is to blast my dear one with a flood of anger that is in no way connected with him when I see him tonight. It’s this class, I think. I know, I know, I will make it, just need to keep pushing, keep working. But it feels torturous right now. Everything important is delayed, postponed, set aside, for the sake of this ridiculous, frustrating course on a topic I may or may not ever use.

If I do end up using this skill, I suppose it will be worthwhile.

But I have never been very motivated by future consequences, not ones this uncertain/unlikely or seemingly unimportant.

So I escaped to the coffee shop to get away from my disastrous kitchen and from my sadness at having a fridge and garden full of food that I haven’t taken the time to prepare and eat and from my grief at simply not having eaten well today (yes grief, isn’t that odd/interesting?) and the unnecessary guilt at not having fed my husband well or myself well (ah redundancy). I cannot escape the truck-hunting project. Are we purchasing something we can afford? I cannot escape the horror of financial insecurity or my guilt over not giving properly or enough in the wake of my own fears.

I escaped…but only to the noisy background music, the distraction of people back and forth, and the unending frustration of coursework I cannot master.

Oh God. Surely I exaggerate. Surely my emotions are vastly beyond the reality. I have forgotten your bigness in the bigness of me. Or in the illusion of my bigness. Where does this anger come from? Am I deserting myself in the middle of this crazy class? Can I just push through and make it? Maybe on a desert island. But in order to care for the ones I love most — the one I love most — I must care for myself. It sounds like that begins with dinner.


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