feminish

I got angry yesterday. The kind of anger that made my throat tight, my heart thud in my chest and my stomach knot against food.

I’ve always thought I wasn’t an angry person.

Some might say I used to get stressed, be stroppy, throw ‘tantrums’ [two new words for my just-opened feminish language-bin]… but I don’t think they’d say I was An Angry Young Woman.

I was angry yesterday with the mason - for cutting a new lintel too short, putting it in the wrong way up and letting half the house subside an inch in the process. It’s true that I raised my voice and wrung my hands and leapt up and down a little more than the situation probably required. And it’s true that before I knew it I was also angry with the Patterner.

But what really hit me yesterday was the thick intensity of the storm raging inside my whole body. There was way more going on than just the pierced words and facial gymnastics that squeezed their way through my physical casing - but it’s hard to see exactly what.

It’s funny to see how much I am a mystery to my own self.