Today, I’m angry. Over the weekend, I had a good conversation with a close friend about her anger over my loss. I can empathize. It sucks. This weekend, another of my dearest friends expressed her anger about losing her own children. I can empathize. It’s ridiculous that we walk this road together, losing our kids two weeks apart. This morning, as I was reading Through a Season of Grief, today’s devotional talked about how you should “not let the sun go down on your anger.” Deal with it when it is present. A healthy way to not let your anger fester, the book suggests, is to write down every angry sentence you can think of until you just can’t think of anything else. So, I preface this post by saying that if you are close to me and are easily offended, skip this post. Because this is about how I’m feeling today—not everyday.
I am angry that I have lost my first-born child—my mini me.
I am angry that my husband has lost his first-born child.
I am angry that my surviving son will go through the rest of his life without his best friend.
I am angry that I will spend the rest of my life without my son.
I’m angry that men grieve differently and that I am surrounded by men.
I’m angry that it’s been three months and I don’t feel “better.”
I’m angry that I pressure myself about what I “should” be feeling, because I am such a damn overachiever.
I am angry that I can’t pull myself together.
I am angry that I am constantly emotionally disorganized.
I am angry that every store I go into reminds me of what I no longer have to buy for him.
I am angry that I care about what people think of me.
I am angry at God for taking away my child.
I am angry at God for leaving Frack without his Frick.
I am angry at God for taking the first grandchild on both sides of our family.
I am angry every time I see a fourth chair, plate, cup, placemat, towel, or anything else we own in a set of four because it’s a constant reminder that he is gone.
I’m angry that everything is sold in even numbers or that booths at restaurants seat four.I am angry that I wake up every morning thinking about the accident or the hospital.
I am angry that I wake up every morning thinking about the accident or the hospital.
I am angry at Noah. So, so angry. He should have listened to me when I told him to be careful.
I am angry at the other driver for not being clairvoyant and seeing the accident before it happened. Totally misplaced. Totally ridiculous. I don’t care.
I am angry at myself for letting him drive to Fresno.
I am angry at myself for being too tired to drive him to band camp.
I am angry at myself for letting him go.
I am angry at myself for not buying him a safer car.
I am angry that nothing could have saved my son, and I know it.
I am angry that I wasted so MUCH of my life being mean to Noah, taking things out on him that weren’t his fault.
I am angry that I spent a large part of his childhood absent from his life, consumed by my own need for career progression and self worth.
I am angry that we fought so much and that I didn’t have more patience with him.
I am angry that I didn’t realize that he needed me and that I didn’t quit my job sooner—maybe then I would have had more time.
I am angry that I didn’t spend more time teaching him to drive.
I am angry that he is gone and that this is our life.
I am angry that there are days where I am consumed with guilt because it is a useless emotion that leads nowhere.
I am angry that there are days I cannot talk to people.
I am angry that there is no easy answer to the question, “Do you have kids?”
I am angry that from this point forward, any friend I make will never meet my son.
I am angry that I don’t have the patience to hear about other people’s problems most days.
I am angry that some of my friends have moved on with their lives and don’t understand that I just can’t be there for them right now.
I am angry that people who I thought would be there, aren’t.
I am angry that people ask what happened when I’ve been pretty clear that I’m not ready to talk about it. I’m not here to satisfy your curiosity. If you really wanted to support me, you would just be there.
I am angry that I don’t want to go “home” right now, because it is a place filled with good memories. But right now, the bad memories far outweigh the good.
I am angry that we are moving for all of the wrong reasons.
I’m angry that people seem to think I should be excited about a new house. I’m not excited 90 percent of the time. We bought a house because my son died and we want to escape the emptiness that this house brings.
I am angry that all I have left of my son are memories, clothes, and a few of his belongings.
I am angry that we had it all and now we have “this.” People say things like, “but you still have so many blessings.” No. Come talk to me after you’ve lost your child. Am I grateful that things are not worse? Absolutely! But I’m not counting my blessings all the time. I don’t feel particularly blessed at the moment.
I am angry that I feel alone, even though I’m not.
I am angry that no matter how hard I try to explain how I’m feeling, no one will ever truly understand what it is like to walk in my shoes.
“Take a breath,” they say. “One step at a time,” they say. “It’s okay to feel what you need to feel,” they say. Today, I feel pissed.
Today’s devotional: Holy Spirit, grant me the freedom and opportunity to release my anger in a way that helps, not hurts. Amen.