Rage Re-Defined

Usually, when I'm really angry with someone, I let loose with a flood of words--or worse, I'm dead silent. This is only dangerous because it means that I'm silently plotting how to get even with whoever has done me wrong. A few days ago, this all changed. Words or silence would not be enough. It could never be enough.

There was an item in my house--a simple item that for nearly a year, every time I looked at it, caused rage to boil up and boil over in my soul. It has caused bile to rise in the back of my throat, my stomach to knot up, my heart to race, my face to flood with color. I couldn't take it anymore.

Could. Not. Take. It.

This offending item had to be removed. It was not enough to hide it. No. It didn't matter if I couldn't see it. I would still know it was there. It was not enough to simply throw it away. It had to be annihilated. Drastic measures were necessary. With the help of a large garbage bag--er, TWO large garbage bags--a two-by-four and a sturdy pair of scissors, I efficiently and effectively rid my home of the offending item. It is gone. And if anyone should ever ask me where it is, I can now honestly say that I don't know. Because I don't. I don't know where things end up after the garbage man takes them.

I was hit with a little pang of guilt as I cut and smashed it to smithereens. After all, it really wasn't my item to destroy. Yet somehow, in its destruction, I felt like I was protecting myself from something evil. Cleansing my home of something impure. And when the garbage man dumped the can in which the destroyed item was housed, I felt an odd sense of relief. Finally. Finally.