I feel the anger usually in my gut. It becomes a stiff, solid piece of clay which I could mold into different shapes, but I can’t maneuver it out of me. Other days, I just can’t be bothered with my anger. You exhaust me, sweetie. Not today. Go away.

Perhaps I am the one most disappointed by my pessimism. I always (yes, emphasis is needed) imagine the most awful outcome. People die. I’m also a brilliant celebrator of my wins: if he doesn’t like me, no problem because I was prepared; you mean he does like me? What a lovely surprise! I win either way. This is largely why I’ve stayed with my pessimism.

There are other days where I just can’t. I am clear in my directions: no one bother me today; today I don’t care; tell me again in a few days; I’m not trying.

These are days I work from my bed—my husband furious at what the bed is doing to my lower back—here, yes, here is where I do my best work. My bed. Batman (my cat) is on my lap, her soft purrs vibrating onto my legs. I have water next to me. Triscuits and Ricola lozenges are my go-to snack.

But, not on days where I just can’t. (Why then did I say all this?)

Because I’m angry. Deep down inside it burns and rots.

“You’re not supposed to use your blog to journal,” I’m told. Nah. I’m good without that piece of advice.

Keep going. Move. Rest. Sleep.

Repeat.

Let it out. Don’t punch. Exhale. Sigh.

It’s okay to spew. Let the thoughts flow. It’s fun to type ridiculously quick. I love noticeable clicks on the keys. They’re comforting. Say something of substance? Maybe, maybe not.

Rest, refresh, come back and write again tomorrow.