Healthy Anger?

Several "alert readers" (a nod to Mr. Funny, Dave Berry) have told me that I sound depressed. On the contrary, I think I'm in a mental state of fire-breathing, nail-spitting anger these days. I do not feel sorry for myself, wallow in woe or weep at no provocation anymore. I'm just irate that I can't do what I want to do--prune trees, lug boxes, toss a saute pan, for example.

A shrink once told me that depression is just anger turned inward. I'm all about anger expressed outwardly, stomping through the house, muttering and sputtering as I attempt simple tasks and then am forced to abandon them. Is that healthier? The only witness to my irritation is the dog, and she's secure enough to realize it's not directed at her. Maybe if I can vent with abandon before Bill comes home, I won't feel the need to pick a fight with him when he does reappear.

I prefer to think of this irate frustration as a positive step toward reclaiming my life, the same kind of impulse that rouses us from our beds after 3 days of flu, to go take a shower, change the sheets and eat a steak instead of a bowl of soup. Enough! Shake off the blahs, get back to business!

If there's anything that this experience has taught me (please note that I am symbolically rolling my eyes here, touting "life-lessons gleaned from catastrophic brush-with-death-and-despair, how droll"), it is that the physical adjustment and the mental acceptance leap-frog each other throughout each stage of the process. The old Two Steps Forward, One Step Back. I just never know whether I'm taking the forward or backward steps while I'm doing it.

For the moment, I'm going to embrace the anger and enjoy it. (And heaven help anybody who gets in my way today).