It's dishonest to say I'm not angry. I am. I grow so weary with being angry; why am I so fragile? Why is my first reaction anger rather than any other? Anger is safer and it feels stronger, much more so than weeping or whining. The anger I learned is armour that I cannot seem to unburden myself with. The standing-sit-circle was the standard way to rest - my anger leaning lightly upon yours, supported and lifted up by your seething. Your seething rested gingerly upon hers, and hers upon his, and theirs upon theirs. We were a poisonous mass of rage, each supporting each other in our illness.
I have broken the circle, first by being dropped, then by falling, then by struggling back up to my feet and choosing, instead, to stand. Now my anger is unsupported; I carry it alone. I will either learn to bear its weight alone or else, better yet, learn to put some of it down.
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