Something weirdly visceral happens when a parent dies. Yes, there is all this grief that comes up, and you expect that, but what of the anger? The seething burning rage inside that simmers beneath your soft skin. Your voice that has often been described as whisper-like and sensual, sexy and light now carries more bass.
You don't walk around scowling, no, you keep that pretty, baby-face beaming like everyone expects you to and you begin to hate them for it. Brutal truth, I know. Others want and need for you to be okay, so you play the role and before long even you're believing it.
But on the inside, deep within the cells of your soul shell, you ache, you long, you cry, you scream, you are more angry than you've ever been and you have no outlet for it. Even when you go to the gym, you can't release it. There is no amount of treadmill running or weight lifting that will take it away. Maybe for the moment, but as soon as you've showered, powdered and changed, that damn anger makes its return.
It sits up high on your chest like a 100-year-old chopped down oak. No matter how strong you think you are, it can't be moved. Won't be moved.
Intellectually you know it's not healthy. You've gone to counseling and cried, but it still has a stranglehold on you. No one knows. It's your private gift for being the one left behind.
Recognizing and acknowledging the anger and where it lives and what triggers it is helpful, but there isn't much consolation in that when you're usually a happy person. Walking around with rage is not something that I'm used to and I'm trying to carry it carefully so it doesn't spill over and harm anyone or myself.
I think I'm doing a pretty good job, but I'd really like to know when it will dissipate. My shoulders feel tight and my heart is sore from the weight of it all.
I'm not really looking for answers, just an outlet, a release. A real release that won't act like a boomerang and toss that damn anger right back to me again.