Anger

Anger sometimes boils in my throat like hot vomit.

Making me want to spew petrid waste from deep inside me on others, into the world.

Anger can choke us like ivy chokes out a native species.

Insidious. Creeping. Vile.

I get angry when the world makes me think that I can’t use my voice.

When I feel stifled.

When it feels impossible to reach out and slap back at those who wish to silence you.

You’re too afraid.

And that makes you even more angry.

Why do women feel less entitled to anger than men?

Why are we expected to diffuse the anger of others?

We have to be so careful.

Navigating the world so as not to disturb.

Disrupt.

Speak up.

And put the words to, to tell the truth of, our anger.

When we speak truths we are called everything from narcassists to bitches to crazy to…it’s endless.

As you get older, and gain more influence and wisdom, the cries to “just shut up” get louder.

We get more frightening.

More powerful.

We incite more anger with age.

Which is exciting.

Empowering even.

I realize that I don’t have to be quiet.

I don’t have to placate.

I can be loud.

I can speak truths that scare others.

I don’t have to shut up because you don’t like what I have to say.

I won’t be silenced by your discomfort.

Then I don’t have to be angry.

I can be fearless.

Face down the anger of others.

Because when I tell the truth I don’t feel fear.

When I live with kindness in my heart and optimism in my soul, you anger can’t penetrate me.

I’m become ruthless.

Warrior-like.

Unafraid.

Unaffected.

By the ravings of those who just want things to be the way they are because they benefit so completely from my silence.