I’m not comfortable expressing anger. Like many women, I’m like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. If I was the weather, I’d have only two forecasts, sunny and thunderstorms. There are no mediums with me. I’m either happy or I’m in a rage.This is not because I’m bipolar. (or is it)? It’s because, like many women, I’ve been taught to swallow back my anger until I erupt in a volcanic rage. Probably most of you had mothers that were 99.9% Donna Reed but a memorable .1% was Incredible Hulk. And usually the transformation happened over something slight. After all, the woman smiled bravely while your baby brother vomited all over her and then flew into a blinding rage over a forgotten Lego that migrated under the couch. ...