Why my mom sent this I don’t know, but the faded, typewritten pages arrived at a moment in my life when my anger blazed like a Cape Town fire, destructive and zero percent contained. They arrived shortly before I moved out of the home I shared with my then wife and my kids. They arrived as I surveyed the damage my anger had inflicted: the dents in the walls and holes in the doors; the way one of my sons, Achilles, tensed up around me while the other, Augs, never stopped talking, as if his friendly chitchat could keep the peace. I could sense it, too, in my partner, for whom our relationship was like a game of Operation with our eyes closed.
Clearly I had always struggled with anger, as many men I know do. Maybe I didn’t struggle with it. Maybe that was the problem – I just thought I was an angry man. Blood type O positive and boiling.
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