Grief’s firstborn child is Anger. I could feel her approaching, long before she ever reached me. Anger did not knock. Anger did not ask for permission; she just burst in, violent and raw, as if the universe itself had decided no corner of my soul was safe from her wrath. Her punishing wrath. Anger burned hot through my chest, a raging fire that had no direction, no reason, only a desperate, feral need to lash out at everything. At my best friend. At the world. At myself.
One of the primary psychological reasons for anger during grief is the feeling of powerlessness or a loss of control. Commonly described as a “masking effect,” anger is a natural response that can be directed towards oneself, family members, medical professionals, religious figures, and even the deceased. Anger is a normal part of the grieving process and is typically a manifestation of grief.
Anger wasn’t a silent companion; no, Anger wanted to be heard. She wanted me to feel her presence in every step, every movement. Anger was a creature that took root in my bones, a restless, ravenous thing that grew stronger every day. Every day, she stood behind me, just over my shoulder, her breath hot against my skin, her rugged fingers curling around my ribs. Anger gripped my hands until my knuckles whitened, my fists tightening without my consent. When I spoke, it was Anger’s voice that slipped into my words, demanding to be noticed. Anger didn’t care about my reasoning or my logic. Anger only cared about the flame she was forcibly feeding me. She made my muscles tense; my jaw would clench until my teeth ached.
Anger twisted inside me like a knot, pulling me in every direction. I couldn’t think clearly. I could only feel Anger pulsing through me, a vicious tremor in my bones. It wasn’t just sadness; it was something much bigger, much fiercer. Why? Why did she have to leave? Why would she do that to us? The questions swirled endlessly, sharp and jagged, tearing through my entire body. Leaving me gasping for air, as my silent pleas became piercing sobs.
But there was more. So much more. The Anger spiraled outward, reaching beyond the walls of my grief and consuming everything around me. I was angry at the world for being so cruel, at the people who’d never seen what my best friend had been hiding. I was angry at the cruel silence that had wrapped itself around my best friend, making her feel isolated. I was angry at myself for missing it, for not seeing the signs, for being so blissfully unaware. How could I have been so blind, so stupid? I should have known. I should have done something. I should have run to her house in the middle of the night, just to hug her. But it was too late now, and the bitter realization that I had failed my best friend hung over me like a cloud, dark and suffocating.
Anger can be a way to express the pain and frustration of grief, it can also be a way to reconnect with the world after the initial shock and numbness of denial. Anger becomes a coping mechanism for dealing with the emotional chaos that comes with a sense of helplessness. When we face the harsh reality of death, the mind often seeks to make sense of the unfairness or senselessness of it all.
My house started to feel too small, the walls too close, suffocating under the weight of my own thoughts. Anger had a voice too, low and insistent, urging me to strike, to shout, to rip apart everything in my path. I would stomp through rooms, my footsteps rattling the house, as if by sheer force I could shake off the frustration that was consuming me. For weeks, even months, my mind churned, frantic and desperate. I wanted to break things, to shatter everything that had ever been beautiful, because none of it mattered anymore. Not when the person I loved was gone.
The brain's amygdala, which processes emotions and signals danger, becomes more active during grief, especially when feelings of loss and unfairness arise. This imbalance can make it harder to manage emotions, leading to explosive outbursts of anger.
I would be pulled from my sleep when Anger thought I looked too peaceful. Her flickering eyes demanded that I wake, her posture coiled, as if she were ready to lunge at my frail body. I could feel her destructive storm gathering inside me, an inevitable force. I could feel it, thick and relentless, pooling in the pit of my stomach, rising like a tide that had no plan to stop. It was as if my veins had turned to fire, a heat spreading up my neck, to my temples, until it burned so fiercely, so intensely, I thought I might explode.
"Why didn’t you tell me?" "Why didn’t you let me help you?"
The words, torn from my throat, echoed against the walls of my empty room. But no answer came. No answer would come. Only the sound of my own voice, reverberating back to me, a cruel reminder that I couldn’t change what had happened. Anger twisted herself around every memory, every thought, until there was nothing left but the heat, the raw ache of wanting something, anything, to explain the unexplainable.
During the anger stage, you may experience intense feelings of frustration, rage, resentment, and irritability. You may even lash out at others, become argumentative, or withdraw from social interactions. Anger can be a difficult emotion to cope with.
When a fleeting moment came where I felt like I could breathe again, when I almost convinced myself to stop screaming, Anger would return, louder and more reckless than before. She wouldn’t let me be. She wouldn’t let me rest. The absence of my best friend, the space she had left, was like a wound that refused to heal, and every time I tried to patch it up, Anger would rip it open again. I wanted to destroy what had destroyed my best friend, to make the world feel the way she felt inside. I wanted to scream until there was nothing left but the Anger that burned so wildly.
Yet, amid the storm, there was still that quiet, gnawing thing beneath the Anger. The same hollow truth that sat just below the surface, waiting for me to finally face it. No matter how many times I screamed or how hard I tried to outrun it, the truth remained: My best friend was gone.
The Anger did not kill me, and it did not make me stronger. It simply was and always will be scorched upon my heart.