I thought that the depressed phase of grieving would be the worst.

I thought that being consumed entirely by my sadness and letting it pick away at my skin and eat into me would be the hardest part of grieving.

I thought that once I walked through myself through the initial shock and sadness of grieving like a little dog leading itself by leash, that I would be ok.

And then the anger hit.

Out of nowhere, it showed up and made it’s presence so clear that it hurt to look at.

Last Monday I was walking to my loss support group. It was the day of our second meeting, and I had been looking forward to it in the week leading up to it because I had enjoyed the first one so much. I don’t  know whether it was because I woke up in a miserable mood that day or not, but the anger just hit me out of nowhere. I became so enraged walking to this group and I couldn’t pinpoint a reason as to why until about halfway through the actual meeting that afternoon.

I was silently sulking and listening to the other’s in my group give each other feedback, and sharing their own emotions when my thoughts seemed to arrange themselves in order and my mouth allowed itself to make a sound.

“I’m so angry.”

I could feel all the eyes in the room towards me, not in a judgmental manner, but in more of an expectant manner. In their defense, it was pretty out of character and random of me to say that. But they didn’t prod me for the explanation, they just chewed their fingernails and bit their lips and tilted their heads and waited.

“I’m so angry that I have to be here. Dave shouldn’t be gone.”

And there it was.

I had spent so much time being so sad that Dave was gone, that I hadn’t actually taken the time to allow myself to be angry. And I needed to get angry, I needed to allow that fierce, burning emotion to pump through my veins until it dissipated.

I guess I hadn’t really thought about how badly it fucking infuriated me that someone could take something that wasn’t theirs so easily, that they could just pull the trigger and someone could be gone and the only thought they needed to think was about whether or not they would be pleading not guilty in a court room full of strangers who don’t care about the people involved in the case, but care only about administering a “just” verdict.

And then I thought, well they can shove a “just” verdict up their ass, because no matter how long they sentence that waste of space to rot in a prison cell, it won’t bring Dave back. Nothing will bring him back, and knowing that makes me so angry.

I can’t stand it when I think about how none of this had to happen.

It was someone hurting someone intentionally, which in turn hurt everyone around them, for no justifiable reason whatsoever. And as someone who feels everything so very deeply, I can’t comprehend why all of this happened.

I mean, logic dictates that some low life was completely off his rocker.

But I have a scientific way of thinking, so I need to know all of the “why’s.” The “why’s” that lay on the skin of the situation, and the “why’s” that are rooted deep in the core. Then I need to brainstorm all the “why’s” and come up with an explanation for everything and I can’t, and that is infuriating as well.

I shouldn’t have to be attending a loss support group.

I shouldn’t have to be sobbing in my room, over a t shirt that would mean absolutely nothing to almost everyone else in the world.

I shouldn’t have to play the “what if” game in my head about what could have been different, what would have been different, what should have been different.

I’ve just become so angry at the whole situation that sometimes I become ashamed of my own thoughts for being so aggressive. I feel like I need to sweep my angry thoughts under a rug or find some sort of way to bury them alive. I get so self conscious because I know that I am not the best version of me when I am angry, and I know that I can lash out and I don’t like it.  But I also think that burying my anger would be unhealthy. I feel like if I bury my anger while it’s still burning, it’ll be like locking away some sort of raging monster. And the longer I let that monster simmer in it’s own flames, the stronger it will get once it’s released again.

My counselor told me that anger is a natural state of grieving. (Btw’s over here, I can’t stand that now my emotions are classified as “states” as thought I’m some sort of chemical process.)

So for now, I’m going to try releasing small bits of anger at a time, in healthy ways (no, I haven’t figured this out yet). I just don’t want to be that nasty, bitter person that uses emotional trauma and personal loss as an excuse for lashing out on people. That’s not who I am as a person.

I am going to let myself be angry, but I am not going to let that anger become me.

I can’t tell if I’m moving forward or moving backwards, but I’ve gotta be moving somewhere, right?