After therapy this week, and swirling with getting back on track in my healing, I am wandering about, wondering. Anger is so important, and it is the reason Psycholobitch is here…to honor the holy fire of anger…to give it voice.

But sometimes, when traversing the path of healing, I have used my anger against myself. I have wallowed in shame and worried about my future. I have someone who deliberately drove me into poverty. Well, to be clear, 110% of poverty level. He WANTS me to suffer. He WANTS to punish me unfairly.

In stronger times, I say, “while he is spit-shining his turd I will take all the shit he slings towards me and compost it and grow something useful and beautiful.” “I won’t suffer just because he wants me to, or because he says so.”

But in weaker times, I grieve. With the specter of poverty so firmly attached to one person, it is difficult to make those connections with the past. I don’t always understand what it means to not be a victim in the midst of victimization. It’s hard to be mindful when you are fucking poor and feeling sorry for yourself. It’s hard to focus on inner work and have faith when things just seem so sucky. I can get angry all I want, I can join the movement to take action, I can write postcards and call out senators and be a force for change….redirect my anger towards making change.

But underlying my anger is an extreme powerlessness. I was taught my whole life I was not good enough, not worthy, I didn’t count.

I am stuck right now. My wonderful, loving therapist offered a way out and a hand in faith to lift me up. And it worked. But I’m still digesting. This is Fuck-It Mountain only instead of letting my teenager run wild with boys, another part of me is sullenly withdrawn…looking out from the mountain and seeing the wreckage. It’s one thing to clean up a back yard, but this looks like a whole forest of wreckage. The giant who stomped down trees and terrorized the villagers cannot always be ignored. I can’t move to another village. I have to find a way out from inner paths, from faith in God, with strength of resolve. I’ll be able to pick up my sword and move soon, just not right now.

For now, I grieve. Tears are just as cleansing and holy as anger. Perhaps Fuck-It Mountain has a temple for the silence of powerlessness, after all.

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