I began to get angry. Then I had this moment of reflection. Why was I angry about this trivial thing? Why am I such an angry person? Who am I angry at? Am I angry at my mom? No. Was I angry at my dad? Was I even angry with a person in particular? The answer almost came instantly. I’m angry at myself. A calm swept over me. I felt numb. I’m angry with myself. Why? I kept probing. Maybe I never let myself come through enough. Maybe I never paid attention to my own needs. Maybe I allowed myself to become so small and quiet that I felt I didn’t exist. And maybe every time I did something evil, it was because I was repressing all my anger with myself until it had to come out in some terrible shape or form. I am angry at myself. I’m not angry at you. I’m angry that I couldn’t handle or understand why you would do that because I never allowed myself to do that. But it was me who was being inhumane. How could I deny my humanity for so long?