My relationship with Anger. | | Mr Funk E. Dude
Give a listen! When I was young, my mother and I lived with her parents. My grandfather was a kind, strong, and loving presence. My grandmother was quick to anger, quick to hold a grudge, and not afraid to let you know it. She had a chip on her shoulder a mile wide, and she'd let you know that too. Her childhood on an oklahoma farm was filled with abuse from her stepmother, neglect from her father, and was constantly told she was trash compared to her half siblings. Life had crafted her to be a tough, hard, emotional woman. When my grandfather died I was 15. At my grandfathers funeral, one person after the next came up to me and told me how much they admired him. They admired his strength, his presence, his attitude towards life. They appreciated that he was always willing to lend a hand and would never ask for anything in return. My own father had divorced my mother when I was 2, and he stopped coming around to see me when I was 10. My grandfather and Uncle were the