I’ve been blindsided by anger. It was sudden. It came up in therapy, although I can’t pinpoint exactly what evoked it. Somehow it just materialised and now it is all over me.

I feel as though to spite me, my heart is deliberately pumping it around my body. It rushes up and crawls, prickly, all over my skin.

This lingering anger has been on the periphery for a while, but I’ve been able to furtively avoid its gaze.  I can’t manage the energy inherent in such a reactive element. One that when disturbed in the past has caused explosive destruction.

It isn’t safe for me to make contact with it. Yet now I have. And the danger in that reconnection brings with it a certain thrill. The thrill of possibilities.

For months I have been waiting at this allegorical junction. Deliberating. Stalling. Interrogating myself. Examining the routes open to me and feeling the powerful polarity in my instinctive response to them.

I’m told inertia is not an option. I’m told which way I should turn and reminded what is expected of me. But those expectations create a response that is opposite and equal. I know I can’t or won’t live up to those demands.

Under that pressure, I am drawn only to step closer to the compelling choices I am not supposed to make. I fixate on fantasies of demonstrating, once and for all, that I am in charge of my own destiny.