Am I angry because I’m eating less sugar, trying to crowd it out—and that’s making me moody—or because I’m allowing myself to eat some sweet things, like a few Christmas cookies at the fair yesterday?
Am I struggling like an addict in withdrawal, playing out my anger, or am I acting up because the sugar I did reach for is affecting my mind and body?
Or is it that I am let down a lot? That I don’t get the support I need around here? It feels frustrating. I get mad. I get lost. I raise my voice. I yell. I scare.
People try, they try, I see their goodness—in the plates washed and left to dry, the candy-colored lights draped on the bushes out front today. The groceries bought. The Coffee Jalla—don’t ask, it’s a blender concoction Punch dreamed up—poured into a small glass for me and dusted with cinnamon sugar.
But even though I said a prayer before I rose today, something about Please help me to speak kindly and not yell at my family, I yelled anyway.
I feel bitter about the many dishes in the sink—the skillets to sponge, utensils to rinse—when I know deep down that it was a gift to make a simple Sunday dinner with Punch’s friend and her brother at the table. And though Dan was busy doing family things all day—paying bills, ordering school photos, signing our family up for health insurance, driving friend and brother back home—I was still mad. It never seems like enough. Figgy worked all day, as on every Saturday and Sunday, but I was resentful that she wasn’t doing the dishes. Go upstairs. I’ll finish them, she said.
I don’t know what the answer is. I do know I’m not exercising enough, especially outdoors.
I hope I can stem the rage.