Where do I put my anger
Beth Mende Conny © 2000-2026
Where does anger go? Truly, someone, tell me — where do I put it?
Keys go into the red plastic basket beneath the kitchen wall phone. Bills go into the "Pay bills" folder. To-do lists go onto notes taped to bathroom mirrors.
But what of anger?
Do you cram it into a utensil drawer or a closet? Do you trash it or cart if off to Goodwill? Or do you simply shove it in your pocket and try to ignore the bulge pressing against your thigh?
Today I'm angry at someone I love but don't particularly like. I won't name names because even though I don't like her today, I will like her soon, perhaps within the hour. Because that's how love is. It can hold a grudge only so long before the heart does a slow about-face.
But for now I am ticked. My anger is pressing into my thigh.
I don't like anger. It's not particularly helpful. It makes concentration difficult. It mutates and multiplies like some creature from outer space. Ah, but it has an upside. It gives me a confidence I don't usually have. Unequivocally I can say, "I am right, you are wrong." There's a headiness to it. Short-lived as it may be.
Already my anger is dissipating, my confidence waning. My damn heart is turning back to the one I love but do not like. Nonetheless, I'll hang on. I like being right, even if only for one more hour.
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