I am still so freaking angry. I’m a word collector, but there aren’t any words regarding anger (that I’ve found) that don’t sound completely patronizing. Mostly, it appears that anger is “destructive” and “dangerous” and breaks people down (well, yeah). Nothing about how it can be healthy. Constructive. Cleansing. Which I guess makes sense. But I don’t freaking care.
I’m still so angry. And sad. And quietly railing against whatever gods may be for making me draw the short straw in sustaining a human life. My five-year-olds used to say all the time: “No fair!” And I would chastise them because whatever they were complaining about didn’t have a thing to do with fair. But I feel like them now. No fair. NO FAIR. I call bullshit. And I’m trying. I’m trying really hard. I’m eating fruit and granola and vegetables. I’m walking and bicycling and making myself do things. I have small moments where I feel hopeful and empowered and optimistic and I try to hold on to them. But they leave.
I’m angry at my body for not doing what was supposed to be so easy for it to do. I’m angry at it for kicking me symptoms now that I can’t decipher. Because it could be early pregnancy symptoms. It could be leftover from the D&C. Or just new normal as a result of the D&C. It could be unprocessed grief and emotional stress. The only thing I’m sure of is that it isn’t PMS, because I’m not within that window yet. I’m angry at my brain for not knowing exactly what to do with these symptoms. For tricking my heart into thinking it could be hope. It could be another chance. For then turning around and repeatedly saying: It’s probably not-It’s probably not-It’s probably not, because it’s trying to protect my heart. I’m angry at my heart, for being so susceptible to being sucker-punched again and again and again.
I’m angry and I’m sad and I hate it. I want so amazingly much not to feel that way. To not have a reason to feel that way.