Anger is scary. Anger is dangerous. I won’t allow myself to do angry

I’m sitting across from my therapist, Mimi, reviewing my homework.

In an effort to get a handle on my emotions — the bouts of sadness, melancholy — she’d recommended I track different feelings that came up for me.

I’d been diagnosed with a physical illness, and had done some necessary grieving work. But still, the depression persisted, and it seemed there was no particular rhyme or reason to my triggers.

Sad, Mad, Glad, Scared: Mimi had written the four primary emotions on the top of the chart, encouraged me to jot down situations that triggered those feelings, and the physical sensations that accompanied them.

Ever the good student, the columns extend all the way down the page; all except one. The label “mad” is conspicuously empty.

Without so much as glancing at my comprehensive notes, Mimi points to the void. “What happened here?”

“Oh,” I shrug humbly. “I don’t really struggle with anger.”

She cocks her head, considering.

I squirm in the plush armchair.

Thankfully, the hour is up.

Mimi encourages me to try again this week, focusing specifically on the column that remains bare.

I don’t want to think about it.

Anger is scary. Anger is dangerous. I won’t allow myself to do angry.