You swallowed your anger so many times it became your personality. Now you call it being easygoing.

Someone cut you off. You smiled.

Someone stole your idea. You laughed it off.

Someone crossed a line and you pretended the line didn't exist.

You've been swallowing anger since childhood.

Not because you don't feel it. Because you were taught it wasn't allowed.

Anger was loud. Angry people were dangerous. Angry children were punished.

So you learned to convert rage into compliance.

A chemistry nobody taught you but your body performed perfectly.

The anger went underground. Into your jaw. Your neck. Your stomach.

It lives in the places where words were supposed to go.

You call yourself patient. Your body calls itself a storage unit.

Every swallowed response is a box on the shelf.

The shelf is bending.

One day someone will do something minor and you'll react like it's the end of the world.

Not because that moment is huge. Because it's the last box the shelf can hold.

The explosion won't match the trigger. And nobody will understand.

Because nobody saw the years of swallowing that came before it.

You don't have an anger problem.

You have an expression problem.

You didn't get rid of the anger. You buried it alive. And it's been digging its way out ever since.