23 March 2015


I've been doing some thinking lately. Real thinking, the difficult thinking that I've been running from for as long as I remember.

Running is an inexact metaphor when the enemy is your own thoughts. Hiding is worse, because the call came from inside the house. But I can't decide on one word to describe seeking out any and every activity that helps prevent oneself from being free to think clearly, so avoidance is the imagery we have to work with.

There's something self-rewarding about being angry. It reinforces the concept that you're the injured party, that you're owed something, that circumstances are unjust. And hey, often you really are injured, owed, and suffering injustice. But anger is only useful as a catalyst to change your behaviour or your situation. Staying angry interminably is a pointless, futile gesture that allows you to stew in self-pity, and no amount of well-intentioned pity from other people is going to make you less angry. It just cools the skin around the infection, but no one ever cleaned a festering wound with ice alone. You've got to get in there and clean and sterilize. Sometimes you have to cut it open again so it can heal. Anger is infection.

I've been doing some thinking lately. Thinking about what hurts. Purging the anger, putting in the time and effort to recover, even though it hurts more than just leaving it alone. So I pick at that scabrous boil, drain it and disinfect it. So I hurt, and I'm sad and sore and raw again, but I'm not angry any more. I'm healing.

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