Member-only story
THE NARRATIVE ARC
How I Move From Anger to Purpose
Rage and resentment cannot be left untended, especially in an alcoholic like me
It’s August. Sun-surface hot. I’m a slug inching along Interstate 30 toward the Dallas suburb where my grandmother is dying. When the big-wheeled diesel pickup bullies its way into my lane, I don’t resist, barely bristle.
I am impervious to jerks in trucks these days, a temperament to which I owe four-plus years of recovery in a Twelve Step program. I’ve leaned on a sponsor and our network more than ever this past year, while weathering deaths and divorce and accompanying confusion, sadness, and loneliness, lest I turn to that old remedy chemicals and self-annihilation.
Thus, on my daily commutes to Rockwall, Texas—suffocating humidity, oppressive traffic, and meat-headed motorists notwithstanding—I’m near stoic.
But all of a sudden those bumper stickers make me want to kill. Bold letters declare America’s female presidential candidate “a piece of shit.” Another attributes her career to “knee pads,” implying fellatio in return for professional advancement.
“Asswipe,” I mumble, a knot forming in my throat.
