I don’t allow myself anger.  Anger is for, well, angry people.  And I am far too enlightened, forgiving, and evolved for such base emotions.

In the case of my abuse, I “forgive” and even “excuse” behaviors in the name of compassion and understanding for my abusers.  I look into their background and see the abuse and pain they suffered, and explain away their abhorrent and inexcusable actions.   This makes me a survivor, not a victim.  I minimize what I went through.  I say, “I’m over it.”  “It doesn’t define me” and I have “let that pony ride.”  (and then I engage in excessive behaviors and numb all the anger and pain that is there.)

That.  Is.  Bullshit.  I was hurt.  I was wounded, and no one stepped up or stepped in to prevent or stop it.  And believe me the signs were there.  It was easier to bury heads in the sand than to make waves and disrupt the ideal family.  At what cost?  At what fucking cost.

I am going to heal.  I am going to be strong.  I am not going to negate my own suffering and pain any longer.  Last night, I was reading and doing some work, and suggestions were made on how to express anger.  My first thought? “Well, I don’t have any anger.  I’m so far beyond that.”  And that is when my stomach clenched, my shoulders and neck tightened, my throat closed up, and my body screamed, “bullshit”.  Upon further consideration, tears came, words came, (words which will not be repeated here).  and I discovered that I am, indeed, angry.  And that’s ok.

Light and Love, (and anger!)

Big ANGRY Laura

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