Something was stolen from me. Something intangible, irreplaceable, and very, very precious.
I called my dad in tears. He said something along the lines of Being angry is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. Let it go, cheer up, and hug a kitten.
Well great. Not only was I still pissed, but now I also hated myself because I was doing it all wrong.
Yeah, Buddhists are all about compassion and inner peace and rising above wrongdoing. But I am just a mere mortal. And let’s be honest here: I’m angry like Bobby Knight.
But anger is volatile like gasoline. Stable in a sealed container, vaporizes when spilled.
I’m going to go back to my garage tonight, and I’m going to be angry. I’ll play some Fleetwood Mac and throw myself a pity party. Then I will cry myself to sleep because it’s my party and I want to. In the morning, I might still be angry, but not as much. Maybe I’ll do it all over again.
And then one day I will look back at the whole thing and be okay with it.
But not today.