Anger

It was a simple exercise. Take a raw egg, write down the name of who or what you are angry at, and chuck said egg against a tree. An exercise designed to help release your anger in a (safe) physical manner. Simple. However, as I sat there balancing a raw egg on my lap, marker in hand, I felt stumped. Not because I wasn’t angry, but because there weren’t words enough to describe the anger I felt.

I am angry at my family member for his new promotion. I am angry at my friends for their excitement for Friday night. I am angry at my Facebook feed and its constant inundation of baby pics and pregnancy announcements. I am angry at all of you for your happiness. I am angry at myself. I am angry at my body for failing me in the worst possible way. I am angry at my husband for not blaming me. I am angry at the cocked heads of sympathy. I am angry that I have always tried to do the right thing. I am angry at God for not being fair. I am angry that my daughter isn’t here. I am angry that I will never know the color of her eyes. I am angry I will never see her smile or hear her giggle. I am angry I will never know if she was an early riser like her daddy or a night owl like her mommy. I am angry that I won’t know her favorite food, her favorite color or her favorite Disney princess. I am angry that her daddy will never walk her down the aisle. I am angry for all the hopes and dreams we had for her. I am angry that it costs $5000 to have a stillborn. I am angry that the first and last item I bought for my daughter was a gravestone. I am angry that I had to bury my sweet Izzie. I am angry that no matter how many joyous blessings I may receive in my life, I will never live happily ever after.

I am angry that for the rest of my life a part of my heart will be missing.

I am angry that this won’t fit on an egg.

—Jillian Ryan

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