Anger

Underneath the mostly placid, solid surface of the Earth is a great boiling, convecting expanse of magma, rock so hot that it is molten. Over the last few weeks, I have realized that I am like that. I have a dark, sad, but mostly placid exterior, but underneath the crust of despair is a red-hot, molten sea of rage.

My psychiatrist says that suicide is ultimately an act of intense rage turned inwards. Deep down, where I seldom look and dislike going, I am very angry. There is a lot of toxic, unexpressed anger, and it burns me like lava. It sears and scars my soul.

Above all, I am angry at my father, for the way he treated me and continues to treat me, for the times he hung me out to dry, but mostly for the fact that I want revenge for his wrongdoing and cannot have it.

I dislike that about myself - the desire for revenge, the desire to make him suffer - and I spend a lot of time obsessing over my despair, in part to avoid looking at my anger.

I don't know what to do about my anger. I want revenge. That seems the only thing that could satisfy it, but I'm not sure it would solve anything. I hate that, and I hate the fact that I subconsciously still allow my father to define me. Thinking about how angry I am makes me intensely depressed. I am going to go and drink now, because that's what I do.

I am reminded of the words of William Shakespeare. "If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?"

God, I hate myself right now.