anger was always hard for her.
anger. be angry. sin not. right.
as a child she was never allowed to be angry, to express feelings of empowerment.
she learned to stuff it. when she tried to express it, she was slapped. better to stuff it.
this was the same in some ways.
he did not care about breaking the restraining order.
he cared that she had not sent him to prison for two years.
he would not hear her side of stories they shared in the darkness.
she had no voice with him.
he said he was sorry. sorrow was absent.
he cared that he had been caught.
he was never really sorry.
he told stories about his jail time.
it was like a movie to him. glamorous. exciting. dangerous. stupid.
he took her into the city to the jail. he showed her his cell window.
he thought he saw her at the courthouse across the street one day.
he had. she testified and obtained a restraining order.
he said the other inmates talked about how they wanted to beat or kill the b*%*#*s that put them in jail.
he said he didn’t do that.
he said he talked about how sweet and kind she was.
she said nothing. she did not believe him.
he thought he was okay as long as he was a little bit better than the other guys.
he was never sorry for any of it.
his heart grew hard. he padlocked it shut.
he began to place blame elsewhere. his father. everything his father did was to blame now.
when that did not work, he placed blame elsewhere.
he blamed her.
her anger. it was still there, waiting to be released.
it was coming out, sometimes like a tea pot or a pressure cooker, a little steam at a time.
she was still patient, kind, longsuffering, forgiving.
but when the longsuffering ended, it ended.
then the steam came out a little more forcefully.
it enforced boundaries.
anger is good. productive. righteous.
be angry. sin not.
(copyright 2016 jane doe)