“You’re angry.” It’s said gently but still has the sting of truth.
“I am but I don’t want to be. I want to count. But if I count I can’t talk to you until I hit 300. And then I’m not going to be angry anymore. Well, I will be, but it will be buried.”
“Okay, that makes sense. Thank you for telling me. So how do we combat those OCD management techniques. How do I help keep you with me and present here, PD?”
“I don’t know”
“How about if I come closer, is that okay?”
“Okay, and why don’t you try to keep looking at me. Its usually easier for you to maintain connection that way. I am right here, and I welcome all the emotion you’re bringing in here today. I want to witness all of it.”
“It doesn’t feel safe to be angry. I am a 28 year old woman who is afraid her Mom will find out she’s angry.”
“I won’t tell her – and I know it doesn’t feel safe but it’s safe to be angry.”
“What would your anger say, if we gave it a voice. It wants to have a voice.”
“It doesn’t. It’s fine. I don’t get to be angry. Only <brother> does. I am not allowed anger.”
“Nope, those are your instincts and old narrative kicking in – and that is fine – but we don’t need them here. They can take a break. I honor them for getting you this far. What would it say, PD, your anger.”
*I look away*
*I look back*
“It can say anything. You can yell. As long as you don’t hurt me, yourself, or any of this stuff your anger can take any form here. I am ready and willing to deal with it, it is welcome here. It needs a voice PD.”
“I’m afraid of it. I’m afraid once I get angry I won’t stop. Would you just watch inside out already!? So I can reference it!?”
“I’m being serious! I will even lend you my copy!”
“PD, you’re angry. And you’re doing such a good job of holding yourself here right now with me. Thank you. Now what would your anger say.”
I open my mouth.
“Park it. Whatever old reason you were about to give for not getting angry. Park it.”
I close my mouth.
“I used to scream inside my car. And cry. For hours. It was the only place that felt safe.”
“I used to yell at the top of the stairs when nobody was home.”
“I am angry”
“I know. And that’s a good thing.”
“I’m motherfucking angry”
“Mhm. And I’m right here and I see it and PD it is 100% justified.”
And then I went on a rant, most of which I do not remember. But then I sat back, exhausted, and said “I’m angry”
And she said “I know.” She’s leaning forward.
“I get to be angry. It’s about time that someone lets me be angry about this.”
And she smiled. “It is. It’s about time.“