Something happened after church on Sunday night that made me incredibly angry. And, I don’t mean I was irritated or annoyed; I mean I was seething. I contemplated calling Matt and asking if I could crash on his couch so I could not have to sleep at home but could still get to class on Monday.
But, Matt and I are not quite that good of friends, so I stayed home and seethed. I ranted to Pup on the phone for a solid hour.
When we got off the phone, all I could do was think. TV annoyed me and my hand shook too much to write properly in my journal. I had only my mind to occupy me.
So, I thought about being angry. I thought about how angry I was at having to be beholden to another person, at having to–either consciously or subconsciously–bend and accept their rules for my behavior on some level (even if I resist, and I do resist, there is a part of me that bows much more often than I think this other person realizes). I thought about how angry it makes me that, at nearly thirty years old, I can’t just decide to do something and then do it, because there’s this other person who will totally freak out if things do not go according to the plan they’ve come to expect. I thought about how angry I am that someone else’s fears dictated how I lived my life.
Then I thought, who’s fault is this, really? Can I really be angry at this other person for doing exactly what I know they’re going to do?
I’m the one allowing this to happen. I’m the one who has accepted these limitations. I’m the one who’s put myself in this situation.
The only person I can be mad at is myself.
And I am furious with myself. I’m angry at myself for letting me stray so far from what I wanted, from what I need. I’m angry at myself for letting me become so dependent on others and for being so afraid of growing up that now I feel like I’ll never make it.
It needs to end.
This is my life, and I’m the only one who can live it.
And goddamn it, I’m going to.
I love you all.
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