I realized that I have not stopped being angry. Not necessarily in general, or in some loud, raging way. No, I have not stopped being angry in a small, quiet kind of way about a few things. Memories. Events. Basically stuff that happened in the past – and that, for some reason, I cannot yet let go of today either because I never found justification or because the root of the anger is something that I still have to cope with, something that’s present in my life that I can’t get away from and move past. I am angry because I have been hurt, and there is no way to undo that hurt, and the people who hurt me won’t recognize that they were wrong to have hurt me the first place – the thing that I really want. I am angry because what I am angry about has left me with regrets – not just about what happened but about my own role in it. I think those angers are the hardest ones to deal with, the ones that, ultimately, leave me angry with me.
Because self-retribution is something that I will never find the end of. I will never hold myself to have been punished enough. Even suicide doesn’t seem like enough – killing myself will not suffice when I hold the error to have been having effectively killed some part of my life already.
No, there is a small, quiet voice in the background of the small, quiet anger that whispers that the only way out is forgiveness. Knowing that I will never be able to hurt myself enough to make up for what happened, the voice murmurs that I must stop shoving my younger consciousness into a jail cell with the hands of hindsight and let who I am now go free.
To me, this sounds like the easier way out. And yet I find that it is so incredibly hard. That whenever I start to cry tears of relief, of disbelief at the freedom I might really be handing myself, those tears run hot again with the anger that was still lying there, a water table under the surface, only buried, never run dry. Because I cannot escape from my own mind; the memories continue to wash over me again and again, opening injuries that have just scabbed over into fresh wounds once more, painful as ever.
I roll my eyes and shake my head, curse the skies and rescind into anger at myself and wonder at the God I supposedly believe in.
I fear that my mind will always run this circle, this loop of hurt and unforgiveness, and that I will die old and embittered and not having settled into my soul. I fear the constant nagging at my heart that at any moment could flare up and bite. I fear that I will forever be angry.