Today I told my husband to get ready to repair a window. I was angry enough that I wanted to throw something through a window. I mean I truly wanted to chuck something through to hear glass breaking. To feel the power of my arms hurl something forcefully and powerfully enough to send it soaring. I wanted to destroy. Crush. Break. I had the window picked out and the item I intended to throw.
I was controlled enough that I didn’t.
I was frustrated at having the control to not do it. Because I wanted to.
I was tired from exerting the control over the anger and dealing with the frustration of it.
I was disappointed in myself for feeling so angry.
I was sad about being disappointed in myself.
I was worried that all of these things were flying through my head.
I was stressed that I was worried.
I was anxious because I couldn’t get rid of the stress.
I was tense because the stress on top of the anxiety was torturing my muscles.
I was miserable over the negative outlook.
I was gloomy about the cynical perspective.
I felt guilty over my negative attitude.
I was downhearted over my reaction.
I am sorry for my temper.
This is too exhausting.
I’m going back to happy.
It sure feels a hell of a lot better.