Eight years ago today, my brother died of cystic fibrosis. Last year, my sister and I went out to dinner, where I gave her a copy of the poem at the end of this post. This year, she's on her way back home to get married.
I'm actually doing okay today, better than I have on any anniversary day or birthday (January 22) so far. Not sure what it is. We'll see if it lasts, but I think I'm doing okay. I'm sure I'll still get teary every so often for quite a while, maybe forever, but I'm fine with that. I think that, over the past eight years, I've dealt with a lot of the grief and guilt. I think the only thing left to work on is the anger, but I think I have a lot of anger that I haven't dealt with.
The problem is, I don't feel comfortable dealing with it, and I certainly don't think I'd be comfortable dealing with it in front of people. What I really need to do is get away for a week, or at least a weekend, somewhere away from everyone, where I can feel comfortable expressing my anger. My mom did it with some sort of foam bat on some pillows on the couch. I think I'd need something a bit stronger, but foam on pillows would probably be a good start. Even thinking about it now, I'm feeling the need to just release. It's dangerous, sitting there under the surface. It causes me to lash out at people for little reason sometimes. I don't like that it's there, yet I don't feel like I'm allowed to release it.
I indulge in little fantasies sometimes, like, I'm walking down the street, and I pass someone walking the other way. I imagine that the person pulls a knife on me, I'm able to knock it away from him, pick it up, and then am justified in stabbing and stabbing and stabbing. The other day, I was walking down the street and some kid in a large group of kids threw a partially-full plastic soda bottle across the street at me, and it hit me in the foot. I turned to look, but just kept walking. I remarked to some friends that I didn't get angry, didn't feel the rush of adrenalin that I thought I might in a situation like that. However, I still had fantasies about the kids coming after me, and me being justified in defending myself. All I had on me was my backpack, but I could throw that at one of them to distract them, then a couple of quick punches to the head, grab the backpack back, and repeat on someone else.
I guess the point of these fantasies is that I think of situations where I would be allowed to release my anger. I wonder if writing a story about anger being released would help me in any way. I have a feeling probably not, since I feel the need to really relase it in a physical way.
Okay, time to forget all of this and get back to work.