Angry Heather

A couple of weeks ago, I posted something on my personal Facebook wall about anger. At the time, anger was sweeping through me with such ferocity I was a little afraid I would lose myself to it.

The post was a quote encouraging people to use their anger to fuel action. For the most part, it was met with encouraging words from friends who know me well enough to be concerned for me. But it was also met with a few well-intentioned but anger-inducing words that basically said anger is never appropriate.

In no frame of mind to discuss it—because I was clinging to my sanity for dear life—I deleted the comments, something I don’t typically do. But I’ve spent a lot of time since then not only trying to regain peace but wondering why it is that we as humans have such an odd relationship with anger, and why it’s particularly frowned on in women.

Because while the Bible cautions us to not sin in our anger, and it speaks against outbursts of wrath, and in the book of James, we learn that the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God, I would argue that there is a place for anger in our lives and not acknowledging is much more harmful than seeing it, owning it, and channeling it.

Ignoring anger is what allows it to turn into bitterness, and bitterness is a cancer that eats away at our souls and our relationships.

I have built a brand on the image of Happy Heather, but I am angry.

I am angry at the CEOs who used me for my mind without acknowledging me or paying me a living wage, leaving my family to struggle.

I am angry at my ex-husband and the choices he made and continues to make, at the hurt he has caused me and our children.

I am angry that every time I lift my head up, there is an avalanche waiting to bury me.

I am angry at the men who assaulted and raped me.

I am angry at the childhood wounds inflicted by those who should have protected my heart.

I am angry that I spent so much time healing from those wounds, only to have everything stripped away by alcoholism and dementia.

I am angry that I have to watch my father die a horrible death.

I am angry that the VA would leave him to die under a bridge. That there are no resources available to our veterans, and we are left with the option of my mother being left penniless or my father being shipped to whatever facility they can happen to find—assuming he survives the wait.

I am angry at the old coots sitting at “The V” in Republic, Missouri who snuck him booze when we tried to dry him out two years ago and then left us to deal with the disaster they created.

I am angry that it ripped my family apart.  That where there was once cookouts and laughter and love, there is now silence echoing throughout the emptiness of our world.

I am angry that the man I love doesn’t want to build a world with me. That he gave me hope and made me long for something he had no intention of giving. That he hurt my children in the process.

I am angry at how incredibly alone I feel.

I am angry at the powerlessness I feel.

I am angry at the church for turning from Jesus and to politics.

I am angry at the number of people who have been turned away from God by those who purport to follow him.

I am angry about the human beings in concentration camps in our country.

I am angry that instead of looking for real solutions to the question of abortion, women’s health is being legislated in dangerous ways.

I am angry for the children forgotten in foster homes and abject poverty in our own backyard.

I am angry that after a decade of crying out against human trafficking, we haven’t even made a dent because people do not care. Bargain deals matter more than human lives.

I am angry that I’m stacking people into my house like cordwood because young people cannot earn a living wage in this country. Jobs are aplenty, but none of them offer a salary someone can live on.

The problem is not with my anger. Yes, it is a secondary emotion—in every instance above, I can point to the pain, injustice, and a sense of powerlessness that are fueling it. But the anger is real and shoving it down will do nothing beyond allowing it to fester.

I shoved it down for 41 years, and when my father’s crash-and-burn ripped back the scabs covering that anger, the power of it nearly consumed me.

I don’t want to keep this anger. My point is not to hold on to it. It has to be acknowledged, investigated, channeled and then released. I must move forward and leave it behind, and that’s a continual process.

But in that process, I use my anger to fuel me. To guide my decisions. To draw boundaries. To fix what I can and fight for others.

Because we have much to be angry about. But there is also love, and beauty and joy to be had. To deny the anger gives it power over us instead of using its power to move us beyond, to something better.