I have great difficulty experiencing anger. Somewhere along the way, I picked up the deep conviction that I am not allowed to be angry. I believe this so completely that not only will I not show anger to other people, but I won’t even admit it to myself.
Until, of course, the migraines start. Panic attacks. Nightmares. Anxiety. The anger becomes an ingrown emotion, trapped and infected and sore. It starts to claw it’s way to consciousness (frequently appearing first in images that I paint or record in poetry). I’ve been Really Really Angry for about 9 months now, and I’m just now retching it up to the surface. So this is a picture of how I feel today (and yesterday, when I painted it). Also, a poem that I wrote years ago on the same subject:
Okay, nevermind, I can’t find that poem (I can’t find anything since I moved), but here’s another poem which at least has “ingrown soul” in it, so it sort of relates to the picture:
Variation on a Theme by Natalie Taylor
By Me (if you wish to copy, please credit the website).
I have wanted
answers, finite and measurable, boxes in which to store
the old questions, so I can check them off and
sit in a room with them, numbering the sum
I have seen
the red face of an ingrown soul, trapped and festering and swollen and vicious.
I have known
fear as my closest companion on the road,
always ready with a word or two,
in a voice like mothballs and stale beer.
I have come
anyway. One foot in front of the other,
pulled open as light through a prism,