I’m angry. I have every reason to be angry, and I am angry. I know all about anger as negative energy. I know all about how nice, well-educated religious ladies aren’t supposed to be angry. I know all about ways to reframe the situation, ways to channel anger into positive pursuits. I wasn’t a psych professional for nothing.
But you know what? I don’t care. I am angry and I have every reason to be angry. I am angry and I going to keep saying that and acknowledging that part of my reality until I don’t need to any more.
I’ve talked about my idea of acceptance a lot in this blog, notably here. As I say again and again:
Accepting an unpleasant or bad situation – war or abuse or cancer, for instance – doesn’t mean that I endorse it or like it. It just means that I have looked at reality and noticed that it is real. Not accepting reality is fairly insane.
Right now anger is part of my reality. Feelings are not the boss of me, as I also like to say. “My fundamental happiness takes nothing away from being sad or angry at a person or a situation, and the sadness or anger do not destroy the fundamental contentment,” as I wrote there. But feelings are real and they are part of the greater reality.
Okay. Now that we have all that out of the way – I’m angry! I’m furious! I’m enraged! No one in my family has had cancer – until me. Then I get cancer (how? who knows?) and I end up being one of the 30%. Lucky puppy me.
It used to be that when I got angry I’d go for a long walk or spend an hour on my exercise bike. I can’t do that any more. I can’t pound pillows or throw stuffed animals against the wall. But I can write. I can and do write. Homo verbalis – I use my words.
I am angry at cancer.
I am angry at awareness campaigns that don’t donate to research.
I am angry at people who call breast cancer “the good cancer”.
I am angry at my doctors for not having the tools to help me better.
I am angry at my body for being so weak and tired.
I am angry at the pain medicine that clouds my thought.
I am angry at people who stay away from me because terminal disease scares them.
I am angry, angry angry!
And then I come out the other side of the anger and I weep. I sob. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to get ready to say goodbye. I cry because I don’t know how much longer I have, and I cry because I don’t know if it would be worse for that to be a longer or a shorter time.
I cry and I become calmer. I may even be able to sleep tonight.