The anger bubbled to the surface, blistering under the broiler that was the financial mess my first husband gifted me in the divorce. Every month, as I struggled to make payments towards debt that he had accrued, my body would respond with a vicious energy and my mind would rail against the unfairness of it all.
That anger was poison roiling inside me, its caustic nature wearing away at me, in some ways causing even more damage than he had done with his reckless spending and deliberate betrayals.
Whenever somebody pointed out that my anger was only hurting me, I grew defensive and, yes, angry. “I’m justified to feel this way!” I would insist. “He did these things and left me to clean up his mess. It’s not fair!”
And I was right.
But so were they.