Am I Entitled to the Anger?

I could tell you that I'm poised, straight clothing, combed hair, laughing eyes and you might believe me; I could work through this blogpost like I've worked through all of them - considering the audience and my own self-respect, gauging the possible reaction to my emotions, filtering things through the sensory perception of what any one person can handle - yet the temptation to blow my top is too strong today.

Hope schmope.  Damn it, I've had my fill.  We've all had our fill of all of it.  And if my siblings and my mom aren't feeling it yet, then they're not paying attention because this blows, this sucks, it's jacked up beyond all belief and the saying "God doesn't give you more than you can handle" is completely lacking intelligence and was probably coined by someone who broke their leg on the day of their wedding, which, by the way, is SMALL, TINY, MINISCULE.

Yesterday was the three year anniversary of my separation - the day he walked out and into the arms of someone else, leaving me dumbstruck and dumb, raising two children while on rubber legs.  Three freaking years have passed and oh, I got through it - wonderfully got through it, though it took time and self-reflection and introspection and anger and tears and pain and sorrow and finally acceptance.  I got through it.  I learned a lot about myself in the process.

Jeff died.

Did God forget that?

Did He forget that our hearts were torn, ripped into something that resembles nothing imaginable - a chunk of it gone, spinning into the unknown?  Does He realize that we still have images of Jeff in the hospital, fighting for his life - that we relive his passing on a daily basis, that we miss him on a daily basis, that the void of losing him is so black and big and scary that we pray, we hope, we pray, we hope, we want and we love? Does He realize how painful that is?

I am reminded of the story in the bible of the death of Lazarus - when Jesus wept, though He knew that Lazarus would rise again, he wept for the pain of Mary and Martha, he wept because of their sorrow. 

I find comfort in that.

But hey, guess what God?  Our dad is dead now too.  Another chunk is gone, spinning in the unknown.

Why?
Why?
Why?

Truth is, I haven't the energy to care or find a reason for it.  Is it for my own personal growth?  I feel grown enough, thank you.  I've read the freaking self-help manuals on divorce, grief, loss, rejection, pain, sorrow and loss ad nauseum.

How about I get sick with happiness and hope and being so in love with someone that I make people sick?  How about that for a change?  How about the happy ending for the woman that was cheated on, lied to, suffered through a divorce and a death of a sibling, watched her parents mourn - heartbroken -, watched her brothers and sisters, sister-in-laws and brother-in-law mourn - heartbroken -, who dealt with her own pain and empathized with the pain of all those people and still got through gets a freaking happy ending?  How about that?  Where is that?

Why is it that the lying, stinking, cheating bastards in this world, who haven't a clue about what love is, what family is, what truth and reality is, thrive? 

Does this mean I have a greater reward in heaven?

Is this anger justified?

Am I going to suffer through pergatory for even having these thoughts?  Or will I get a pass through pergatory because of it?

I'm tired.

Real, real tired.