"Why the anger?" he asked me in not those words.
"Eh? I'm not angry," I responded.
"Your words were." Again, in not those words.
"..." I responded, then pondered.
Yes, they sounded angry.
I didn't think so.
But was I?
In those words, no.
I thanked him for his feedback on my word choices and style. I edited what I had posted to a softer tone. I expressed my appreciation, I hope he knew it was for his gentle response to what appeared to be my anger at the topic at hand.
Was I angry?
Yes, and not at what we were talking about.
I'm angry that I had to quit my job to be able to share my knowledge on a stage, in the public.
I'm angry that I worked for a company I swore I would never work for, and enjoyed it.
I'm angry that I put my life on hold, that I continue to do so, instead of living the life I want.
I'm angry that my heart keeps breaking over and over and over again.
I'm angry for the poor choices past me made out of fear, and the continued echoes of those choices.
I'm angry for the friends who left me, and the trust that I watched be thrown back in my face.
I am not, however, angry about the lack of an app on an iwatch that tells me to turn around and paddle back to shore, that I have gone too far from land, and that I am on my own beyond the limits of my own strength to return.