Anger

That's it. I'm sick and tired of all of this. I'm tired of being exhausted, worn, broken, hurt, upset. So I'm not. I don't care. I'm not upset. I'm just angry. I'm angry at him for putting me in this situation, angry at her for never understanding that there are some things she can't get and needs to leave to me myself, angry at them for how badly they have affected me and how they have no idea how much it's hurt.

The problem is though, that when it comes down to it, I'm not angry at any of them. I'm exhausted, worn, broken, hurt, and upset. But I'm not angry at them. The only person I'm really angry at is myself. I'm angry at myself for caring so much, for letting it all affect me, for being paranoid, and unstable, and irrational. Am I angry at myself for being human? Perhaps. It doesn't matter why though, what matters (if anything) is that I'm only angry at myself because I can't deal with my own life.

Is that a just cause for anger? Probably not. That doesn't change the fact that here I am, regardless, angry at myself with no reasonable outlet save these words spilling out onto the screen before me. I find myself wondering if the only reason I'm angry isn't really that I'm not angry at all, that I'm incapable of being truly angry. I sometimes wish that my anger could escalate into rash actions and hurtful, stinging words. But it rarely ever does. And that bothers me...for one reason or another, it frustrates me that I can't really be angry at anybody, can't maintain the irrational state of purely enraged action for any significant period of time.

No matter how angry I may have been at someone for the moment, I find myself going back and apologizing. That makes me turn once more against myself and long to make a mess, a complete and irreparable mess. But at this point, it doesn't even really matter anymore. I've made enough messes, all of them too big to refuse acknowledgment of their existence, yet too small to not be able to fix.

Part of me is upset by this, dissatisfied with the fact that I can't seem to be truly shattered. Because the fact remains, that no matter how broken I get, no matter how many pieces I fall apart into, I still seem to maintain a certain rational control. Admittedly, most of the time that control is useful and pleasant and something I am thankful for. But sometimes, I just want to be angry, and irrational, and bitter, and just not give a damn what happens as a result. Sometimes, I'm just angry at myself for not being able to accomplish that.