Rage was a part of my family. It took us over and blew past our ordinary boundaries like a tornado, leaving devastation in its wake.  Our rage reflected our depression, our sense of being out of control of our lives, our sadness and horror at what the disease of addiction was doing to each and every one of us. We felt helpless and that helplessness made us want to lash out in order to regain a sense of power over something, anything; power over our sense of helplessness, really. Rage was frightening, it made me feel unsafe and as if I should keep what I was feeling to myself. None of us knew what to do with our sadness, it made us feel very vulnerable to share it and it meant that we had to admit how scared we were of what was happening to us. We were afraid of looking at what was happening to us, we felt helpless to change it, so we denied our rage and pain hoping that it would just go away and things would magically get better. We got mad to make the sadness go away, to feel empowered. We got rid of our pain by making it about someone else. We dumped on whom ever or whatever was handy.

My anger hurts me most

Resentment is like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die.

Malachy McCourt