Rage is one of those things you tend to wish you never inherited from your parents or developed it on your own terms. Once brought up to its fullest, it is a hard thing to let go, until the source of that anger is silenced, permanently.
For years, my short fuse was the only other alternative to my depressive melancholy. In many ways, it presented itself as a comforting emotion to an otherwise stagnant feeling. Anger is always easier to manage and ply than sadness and because of that, I became very good at making use of my anger for things that needed to be done. Most of everything I have accomplished in my life, I have done it thanks to the seething anger that fuels my every step of the way, through thick and thin.
Yet anger carries with it the catch. It burns, perhaps too brightly. Misdirected anger serves to drive away those that mean well rather than those that do not. Life becomes a vicious cycle of rage and those that serve to provoke it. In that life there is no peace, regardless of what gets accomplished, there is no time to appreciate that life for what it should be, just the unbridled rage that courses in the moments.
That’s why in recent times, I find myself constantly battling not only my depression, but the anger that I often turn to in the face of melancholy. Without that balance, there is a lot to take in and a lot to hold back especially when there are people in my life I don’t want to push away anymore. At least, not by taking it out on those that care for me. So I take it out on myself instead.
And it’s not as easy to stop the blood now as it was before.