I reduced my hours at Peet’s by about 50%, which means I’m about 50% less angry. If such a thing can be measured.
When I met with my pastor she told me to “plunge the depths” of my anger. Which is not the concrete practical advice I like to hear. I’d prefer something like “make an appointment with a counselor,” or “slam raw eggs into the wall of your shower” (believe me, the cleanup is *not* as easy as you might think. I had to bust out the ajax to get the yolk off, and the shards of shell are still behind the toilet).
Earlier this week, when Marin asked me how I’ve been lately, I told her, “I’ve been angry.” I thought “plunge the depths” might mean, “admit it.” And when I said those words I tried to remember if I’d ever said them before. Saying “I’m angry” feels a little naughty, like carving your first bad word under the dining room table. Or writing “Denver” on the living room wall (If you ever think you will get through parenthood without screaming, “WHO WROTE ‘DENVER’ ON THE NEW PAINT?“, talk to my mom).
I am worried about complaining too much. I’m scared that I’ll lose my friends, or insult my church family, or that someone will call me to say that my blog is “too whiny” (hi, Mom!). But please forgive me, I’m just starting to learn what to do with anger. Plunging the depths is bound to be messy.
