When you're angry and you know it then it's better that you show it

We interrupt regular programming to bring you this important reminder: If you've been dissed, get mad. Don't only get sad. Don't just quietly absorb as gospel truth the stupid things that repeatedly come out of seemingly rational people's mouths; you are not a sink sponge.

Depression is anger turned inward. You have a right to be angry. You have a right to express that anger. You do have a responsibility to find a healthy outlet for it, though.

"Use your words" isn't just for frustrated toddlers. We could take that advice, too. Heck, get creative with it.

How about picturing those turds who diminished you and calling them out in the privacy of your room? "You latrine-tending rotted gut pus-oozing boil on the nose of humanity, you. You're just wrong." You can say any version of this, or write it down. "You ignorant irrelevant idiot. You arrogant arseholian blight on the landscape of earthlings."

How do you know they're wrong about you? Well, do they know you better than you know yourself?

Wait, what? You're not sure you know what it means to know yourself? Oh honey that right there is where to start.

If you haven't spent your limited time on earth thus far asking the question, "Who am I?" you are practically offering up your heart as a dart board with a splendiferous marquee that says "Free target practice."

Straight up: this whole knowing thyself thing, it's work. No shortcuts. You won't find the answer on social media, so watch how much time you give that. You won't get the full picture from your mother, either, nor your (supposed) soul mate, your BFF, nor your dog, much as she worships you.

And if you think that sounds like knowing yourself is a gift so rare, why yes, yes it is.

You are not your feelings. You are not your body. You are not your thoughts. You are not your history. You are not your aspirations. You are not just your parent's child, or your spouse's spouse, or, for that matter, the punching bag for adult bullies, whether or not they mean to be mean.

The stuff you are partly made of is indestructible. But it's coated in fragile packaging. The packaging might get dinged as you travel your path. Protest loudly! Don't just sit in the dust and wait for more kicks in the gut. You cradle the Divine in your soul—would you allow Him to be disrespected along with you?

Have you ever heard of an elevator speech? It's a roughly one-minute spiel you have ready. Business people like me are told to have one in case we rub elbows (in a literal elevator, or not) with influencers. Yours you will say over and over to yourself until it fits snugly on your tongue and smoothly over your heart and when someone with blinders on opens their mouth and spews absurdity your way, you say your elevating elevator speech. And drop the mic.

You gotta write that speech. You gotta know yourself. You gotta believe what you say about yourself to yourself.

Because only then will you see that these tormentors, these gaseous malodorous detriments to God-fearing churchgoing do-gooding elders/any agers everywhere, they're unawoke. The mouth opens, the tongue flaps, but the membranes in the brain didn't get on the train. And maybe eventually you'll manage to tsk tsk and shrug them off.

You are loved beyond what you know about Love.