And So It Begins (with anger) . . .

At 4:30 this morning, my cat knocked something over in the apartment, waking me from a rather restless slumber. Generally, this is a minor annoyance . . . this morning it was cause for me to leap out of bed and scream at her. Not my finest moment, I know. Thankfully, she's a cat and forgives easily, already curled up in bed beside me as I write this.

Anger is an emotion that I have a difficult time with. I grew up in a household of incredibly angry individuals and always vowed that I would not be like them. Ironically, they did not allow me to express my anger to them. So I spent years suppressing that emotion, and it has taken me years to learn how to release it in a positive manner. It was the source of an incredibly deep depression in my early 20's that included panic attacks and self injury. These days I handle this particular emotion much better (minus rare occasions like tonight), as I've learned that writing, movement, and meditation can bring me through the worst of it. That, however, doesn't mean that I enjoy the feeling of knots in my stomach, or the look that my cat gives me when I yell at her for, well . . . being a cat.

Obviously the root of this anger is not from things going 'bump' in the night . . . and as I turned on my phone to see what time it was, I realized part of the source of this anger. Her. Her, who I've connected with so deeply. Her, who has mirrored the residue of my past. Her, who said that unless I learn how to let go of this, I will never be able to be fully present. I will never have the space to receive the wholeness that comes with knowing someone so intimately. Her, who is a survivor. Her, whom I love and whose picture I see every time I turn on my phone.

And in this moment, I am grateful that she is so far away. Because to feel this, with her in the same room as me, in the same bed, would be an unbearable conflict. Small blessings.

Logically, I understand that it's not really about her either. It's about the anger at having to deal with *this* in my life now. Having to deal with it at all, really. I don't want to feel uncomfortable in my own skin. I don't want to go to bed at night feeling as though a toxic waste bin has been dumped within the confines of my own flesh. I don't want to lie in a bathtub, feeling tears that are stuck, hardly able to breathe. It has taken me so many years to re-inhabit my body . . . the thought of being flooded . . . of drowning in this mess of emotions and events is not appealing.

And yet, I know that I have to . . . and will. I even understand why. Why now. Why this. (That I will save for a later blog,)

It doesn't make my heart any less tired.

In the meantime, I have a phone call scheduled with my Plant Spirit Medicine Practitioner on Friday afternoon (4 PM), to discuss 'options' as to how work through this. I've asked for her professional opinion . . . in part because it was recommended that I go to talk therapy. In all honesty, that doesn't appeal to me, but I want to make certain that I'm not just saying that out of avoidance. She will be honest with me. I'm certain.