Last week I took an online writing workshop with Lilly Dancyger that focused on women writing about their own anger. I shouldn’t need a workshop on this, as I was born angry. Or so it feels, based on what I’ve been told. Like all good American girls of my age, I was well-educated on how to staunch that anger. Or at least not let it bother other people.
Part of me thinks I needed those lessons in keeping my anger in check. That part flashes back to the horrified look on the boy’s face as he crumpled from the pain of my foot connecting with his balls. But then the reasonable part of my brain says, “Well if he didn’t want to get kicked in the balls, he shouldn’t have sneaked up behind you and grabbed your breasts,” chimes in.
CJ didn’t tell me this story until years had passed, but they punched a boy in the face in pre-school. This boy, who, later that school year was busted touching a classmate in the unisex bathroom, once pinned CJ against the fence on the playground. Despite him being significantly bigger, CJ threw a punch, bloodying his little freckled nose.
The teacher never said a word to me about it, nor did she send CJ to the principal’s office or punish them. She made sure the boy stayed away from CJ for the rest of the school year while I ignorantly invited him to birthday parties and playdates.
In middle school, when the same boy was doing the bullshit to CJ that’s often met with, “Oh, he does that because he likes you,” CJ told him, “I bloodied your nose before. I’ll do it again.” Never mind that CJ wasn’t even five feet tall and this kid had grown into a formidable football player. He backed off and has since stayed there.
Even when they direct it at me, I’m glad my kid expresses their anger. They’re going to need that skill in this world where the Supreme Court is aiming to kill Roe vs. Wade, with its sights set on LGBTQA rights next. Because how else is a female-presenting queer 18-year old going to survive without displays of taboo, unforgivable, pearl-clutching feminine rage? Especially when that kid is going to art school in Missouri in a year.
My anxiety disorder is the result of a lifetime of anger balled and wound, tied off, twisted, and wrenched off umbilical style. When triggered, the anxiety tether breaks and the anger snaps free.
I laugh. Not a joyful belly laugh or twinkling giggle, but a razor-edged snort that shoots out of me, almost equine. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
The shaking starts deep, somewhere near where I began, rippling through me, pushing sweat from my pores, liquid expanding to hot vapor, condensation when the air hits. Don’t fucking cry.
Breathe. In and out, never mind the quivering. Breathe until it passes. Then I can laugh it off, diminish it, and disparage the source of my anger. I gather myself back into the charming, if not the too talkative girl you love, and carry on, another loop or three around the ball.
The anger was slipping out before last night’s Supreme Court leak. It’s been happening all through surgery recovery. Yes, this is ultimately a time of healing, but the other day I cry-yelled that I have been in pain since 2017 and I am so sick of it.
Don’t tell me it’s almost over. I’m not stupid. I know the end of this part of my life is in its final days. I feel better every day. But there’s still pain and so much fear. Do I even know how to live my life without my pain? When it’s gone, what else will I notice is wrong with me?
And there’s the anger that comes with disappointment. I canceled my trip to Tulsa to see Patti Smith this week. Just as I canceled my trip to Chicago to see Wilco.
Don’t tell me it was the right thing to do. I’m not stupid. I know I’m not ready for travel and rock shows. But it’s still infuriating to have these events that kept me going through the worst parts of my recovery not happen because my body, my constant betrayer, isn’t up to snuff.
Even as I typed that part of my brain urged me to soften what I was saying. That it’s just self-pity and people can only handle so much self-pity before they turn. They might not do anything to help keep a loved one from getting so far gone that they fall into that particular pit, but they sure as hell won’t tolerate it once you’re in it.
No, I’m not going to soften what I say. I’m also not going to give in to the feel-good cynical belief that we’re strong and can only rely on ourselves. We have got to be there for each other.
Part of being there is witnessing one another’s pain and anger. Don’t look away. You’re not being polite when you look away, despite what we’ve all been taught. Look at the anger and pain. Acknowledge it. Validate it. It’s not going away until you do.
Because that’s all we all want, as humans. We want to be validated, acknowledged, cared for—to be loved. And what is love if not the gift of someone’s time, brainspace, and good actions?
Today, my social media timelines are full of women screaming for our rights to be acknowledged, validated, and fought for. Black men in my timelines are screaming, too. They know. White men, though? Where are you? With a couple of exceptions, you’re being exceptionally quiet. Or you’re posting about your workouts, records, movies, and what you’re going to have for dinner while I’m wondering if the excruciating unmedicated pain of having an IUD inserted in my queer uterus-having young adult child would be less cruel than taking the chance that they won’t deal with an unwanted pregnancy, likely brought on by an unwanted man, sometime in the next five years.
Where are you?
Brilliant. You said what I can't find the words for.
Yes! Thank you for putting this all in words on paper.