Angry Broad

Anger is a strange thing for me. Usually when I’m just mad I can typically get to the point where I am off-handedly dismissing it with a small to moderate amount of snark. But when I get angry, really angry, I usually wind up in tears. Throwing things and yelling and writing drafts full of awful things in my head is usually the precursor to tears, but I always know they are there. Waiting to be unleashed in a humiliating display of my most base vulnerability. Because try as I might to deny it? I’m a crier. I always have been. I’m fairly sure I get it from my grandmother, who could always be counted upon to wind up sobbing no matter the event or circumstance.

For me, always lurking, right under the seemingly steel hard surface of anger is hurt. Pierce me to my core hurt. It can be camouflaged as guilt or sadness or indignation, but really it’s just hurt. Hurt that someone has hurt me, or hurt that I’ve hurt someone. Whatever. Anger and hurt go hand in hand for me. And most of the time I have a hard time distinguishing between the two.

And because of this blurred line, I never manage to communicate effectively what it is that I’m truly trying to say. Whether that is I’m sorry being screwed up with a liberal dose of self-righteousness or you hurt me being tainted with I told you so. Whatever the case may be, it usually takes me at least a couple of tries to get it right. And that sucks to be me and it sucks to be other person in the equation.

One would think this would be a perfect reason for why being a person who wears their heart on their sleeve would actually be a very, very good thing. But as most rational beings do when they are vulnerable and potentially in danger, I immediately cover it up. Hide it, bury it, whatever, just don’t let the other person see it. See me. And like most other things for me, I’d probably do so much better if I just laid all my cards on the table.