How the Cabbage Ate the Cow

Listen up! This is gospel. Until I see you experience your own anger, you don't get to:

1. judge my anger
2. tell me you fear my anger
3. provoke my anger
   

You just get to start dealing with whatever it is in you that reroutes your anger into something else. You get to yank the knots out of it, so you can quit pulling my rope.

I have been this family's anger whipping child since I was born.
I was the Big Man's alter-anger [she made me do it].
I was the Lady's Righteous Indignation [we don't do anger here].
I was the Rising Sun's Answer to Sadistic Wishes [look at this, qudeery].
And I was your maiden on the alter of medical inspection, remember?

I officially quit.

You don't get to use me anymore even unconsciously. And you just have to listen to me tell you what you're doing. I paid for the right with those eight years on my feet working through the night for pitance pay.

What you're doing is using me: you're posing as the victim of my anger, my hostility, my aggresion, whatever, until...that perfect pregnant moment, the timing exquisitely set up for the punchline, when you metamorphose into my predator, out to draw blood with whatever verbal barbs you can flail at me...in all that expensive habiliment of unconsiousness you get in, within which you can watch your anger work its msyterious sadistic magic and not have to take credit for any of it.

No more! I see the game and I refuse to play any longer.

About the other side of the cycle: no more pity, no more empathy for the victim. There is no sad and pitiful victim; only an angry woman who has not/will not emerge from her deflated self. The anger would bring out the energy, and the energy, the life. Leave it all there on the cold floor by the fireplace if you like. Drift you way toward a cold death. I will no longer wait by your side and try to comfort you.

So. It is said and done. Fini.

NOW:
Will you come out to play a different game with me?
I would so very much like to play at life with you...