Anger. An integral part of the grieving process. We all experience varying degrees of it and deal with it differently.
Personally, I’m a hot headed person anyway so I knew it was coming, I just didn’t know when or how.

I used my words, I used terminology people could understand, I warned people to stay away. I tried really hard not to make what I was feeling inside come out and spew forth on anyone near, so if anyone got hit, I’ll just apologise now and hope it didn’t affect them too much. I’m sorry. 😦

My very first bout of anger came the night he died. The police were at our home, examining the scene. They took hours and I wasn’t allowed to go back except to grab a few things.
When I first walked into my yard, they were fiddling in his car. I was furious, what the hell were they doing in there?
I found out later that in his car was a vital piece of evidence for the case but at the time, I just thought they were arseholes. No rationale.
I was escorted into my own home and told not to touch anything. Again, perfectly reasonable considering it was part of the scene in which they were collecting evidence but I was infuriated. All rational thought out the window, still in shock. I got mad. How dare they tell me not to touch anything in my own home. I recall even saying to the poor young officer who’d had me rant at him already that unless his name was on the lease and he was contributing to the rent, then he can get fucked. Yep, classy.

Following that night, when the first 24hrs of shock wore off, I’d have moments where I’d wonder why it was him and not someone else. Horrible, right? But this was my mind set. There are useless, idiotic, oxygen thieving arsehats roaming around, why not one of them? People who hurt other people deliberately. Someone people wouldn’t miss.
I was furious that they got to live another day, being total wastes of space and he didn’t get to live another day of love and laughter.

I wrote a lot during my anger phase. I’d use the notes on my phone and I’d just write and write and write.
The writing stopped me from acting out what I really wanted to do which reading back, was to terrorise the neighbourhood it would seem.

Here is an excerpt from some of my writings, they’re all along the same lines with different actions but the same bubbling, red faced, can’t control my thoughts and anger.

I want to rage and tear the world apart.
I want to rip letterboxes out, drive my car like a lunatic, smash and break things.
I want to stand in my front yard and scream so hard my throat burns.
I want to punch people, yell in their faces, tell them it should have been them instead.
I want to kick and wail and throw myself on the ground.
I want to roar, tear things apart and blow stuff up.
I want to throw chairs, smash things through walls and rip doors off hinges.

This is what I’m left with. Anger beyond anything I’ve ever felt.
This kind of anger can’t be calmed down or fixed or soothed. It’s like boiling hot lava running through my veins, threatening to commit all these deeds just to make myself feel better.
But it won’t, will it? I’ll still be in the same predicament. He’s never coming back and I’ll just have one hell of a mess to clean up.

My rage is unending today. It doesn’t come in barrelling waves like the sadness.
It comes in explosions, like a bomb going off in my brain.
All I can see is red as I emotionally implode from the inside out.
My hands shake, my body warms, my fists ball up, my teeth clench, my brain hurts.
I lose sight of reality and wonder how the fuck people can’t tell that the world is now a duller more crappy place without him in it.

Anger – The second stage of grief. My arse.
It doesn’t come second, it skips in whenever it damn well feels like it, throwing me off my already heartbreaking axis. It’s self serving and malice.
It comes when I don’t expect it, it boils up when I think I’m doing ok.

I’m on an emotional rampage, with nowhere to direct my fury. Others are hurting too, just as much as me and they don’t deserve the toxic crap that goes through my brain to be spewed into their space just so I feel better. People deserve better care than that.

What I’m left with is a body, slumped on the floor, useless and broken. Relentless sobs, the crying and endless physical pain caused from heartbreak.
What I’m left with is a damaged reality. I’m minus… him.

How I ache for him, the one person who could fix my pain. The person who would wipe my tears and let me know that together, we’ll get through this.
He’s not here, when I need him the most.
He’s not here so nothing will fix this ache.

Wow. Even reading through that to post it on here has shattered me some. I’d forgotten some of that. How time smoothes over some of the yuck life throws at us. I knew it hurt and I knew how badly I wanted to smash things. I remember the feeling but the extent in which my world was broken – I’d forgotten that. Ouch.

I bought myself a punching bag to deal with the overwhelming anger and it’s helped to curb any temptation to tear the world apart from my front door through the neighbourhood.
I’ve found myself using it less which indicates the anger has ebbed away so, progress? I think so.