My homework from my shrink for the week is to write letters to my rapist. I'm, apparently, supposed to be able to be angry at him; in the 6.5 months since the rape, I've never once felt angry. Hurt, betrayed, depressed, lonely, broken, filthy, yes. Angry? No. Apparently not only is that not normal, but it's not healthy. Hence the letters to him to try to be angry. It should really come as no surprise that I'm failing miserably at those letters; they read more like a manifesto to a desperately missed ex-lover.
Don't misunderstand me, I'm terrifically skilled at unjustified rage. I can fly off the handle at the drop of a hat accidentally about inconsequential things. I'm good with righteous white anger, the kind that simmers inside but appears politely questioning, when it comes to social justice issues. But I've spent so long honing the latter skill and learning to ignore the first natural tendency that it's left me with no normal anger. I grew up learning that real anger got me no where; my daddy still wouldn't come home more often no matter how much I got angry. Apparently, that combined with some lovely TBIs, turned me into a pressure cooker of rage. I'm great at accidentally flying off the handle when the straw finally breaks my back. I'm completely inept, though, at having healthy anger towards my rapist. Damn.
Well, onto the next letter to see if it's angrier yet.
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