When the Anger Dies

When I was in the anger phase, I couldn’t wait for it to end.  Being so incredibly filled with so much intense anger/rage was uncomfortable for me.  It felt weird and awkward- and even bad.  It wasn’t me.  I mean, yeah, I get irritated when someone cuts me off in traffic or when the grocery store is out of strawberries right in the middle of summer, but I’m not “an angry person.”

But as soon as the anger began to fade, I wanted it back.  Why?  Because what came next felt even worse:  Depression.

This wasn’t like some of the grieving / deep sorrow/ great, intense emotional pain stuff I had already experienced.  That was focused.  That was an arrow straight to the heart; the personal result of an intimate wrongdoing.

This, though.  This was different.  This was less intense but somehow more debilitating, if that was even imaginable.  “Shock” had worn off.  “Survival mode” had worn off.  And “intense anger” was all but completely gone.  And then I realized the need for all of those things.  Because without them, there’s … nothing.  Numbness.  Deadness.  Dark, emptiness.  A hollow void. 

The awareness of this new phase seemed too close to hopeless.  And I didn’t want hopeless.  The only other reason to wish death upon self, other than escaping unrelenting intense pain, is complete hopelessness.  And I was there.

I intellectually knew about the depression phase, of course.  But I somehow thought I would be able to escape it.  I had all of these buffers, these… qualifications.   I’m a therapist.  I know what to look for.  I have all of these “coping skills.” I am a follower of Christ and have eternity set in my heart.  I am willing to feel what I need to feel in order to heal.  Dang it, I should have been set.

None of that seemed to matter.  Some things just don’t discriminate.
 
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