Rage is Love

“Denying rage is denying love, denying one of the voices of love..

Rage. Oh, rage. We have become intimately acquainted.

When we first met, I hated you. I felt like you were a betrayal of my love, a betrayal of myself. Then I realized something…you can only feel rage if you care. There is only rage where there is love.

And there is so very much rage. Rage because my husband died. Rage because he’s not here anymore. Rage because he killed himself when he was so very loved. Rage because he hurt me so much. Rage because he hurt everyone else so much. Rage because I couldn’t help him. Rage because I feel like I failed him. Rage because he didn’t say goodbye. Rage for the helpless of it all.

So. Much. Rage.

There was so much love. He was love. I loved him so much. He loved me so much. We were love. Our life was love. We loved our life. We loved so much.

How could he leave? How could he take his own life and along with it all the love? How could he want to leave it behind? It makes me want to scream. I weep white hot tears of rage often. It steals my breath, wrapping its strong fingers around my throat.

It’s not fair. Life isn’t fair. Death steals love from us in the most cruel and unexpected ways. The rage is inescapable. Not when there was so much love. It makes me hate everything with a seething, burning hatred. It hurts so much.

Grief is the price we pay for love. Rage is what happens when the love has nowhere to go. I have accepted my rage. It’s justified. I lost so much. I still have so much love. I wasn’t done. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I didn’t get to say goodbye. It’s just shit.

I let myself feel it. I let the rage burn away some of my pain. I let it wear me out. I let it make me weep and scream and shake. I feel it and then I let it go. I can’t live in that place all the time. But rage is my friend. Rage feels better than helplessness.

Rage and I won’t stay friends. He will serve his purpose until love has a place to go again. He may come visit from time to Rome, forever. But he won’t be welcome to stay. For now, though, he has a seat a my table. I am not ashamed of our friendship.

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