Sunday, November 19, 2017

Get It Out




My rage comes in waves.


Sometimes the surface is calm and serene when I can distract myself from the tectonic shifting far below, and other times it’s a boiling morass of seething anger, spitting bile and crushing anything in it’s grasp.


It’s been turbulent as of late... To put it mildly. At first I thought it was just the  concussion and my usual spectrum of aggression and sadness. Now, I’m starting to realize that it’s most likely from a lifetime devoid of tangible justice.


I don’t know when the abuse actually started. 


It was that early.


I can’t say specifically when it all ended, either, or even that it ever did. What’s the difference between abusers when your childhood, teenage years and even early adult life is a series of sexual assaults and criminal molestations?


Does it ever end? Or do these scars simply reemerge every so often, only to be locked back away as I realize that my rage does me no good? There’s no solace in it. There’s no comfort to be had by exhuming the wounds of forgotten ‘instances’. What good will it do me, as a human being, to reflect on the reasons that I currently struggle with touch aversion? What benefits will possibly come from adding old trauma to the burden of the simmering rage, a barely-hidden ferocity? I don’t tolerate or respect authority as it is. I recoil from the seemingly-harmless behaviors of grown men who know better but refuse to meet even the most basic standards of decency, and I explode at the overt suggestiveness, the presumption of privilege. 


And that’s on a good day.


I could talk until I’m blue in the face to every psychiatrist and psychologist and mind reader and meditation master on the planet, and nothing will change the facts. ‘The facts’ being that my basic human autonomy was not mine... Since before I can remember. Whether it’s the early memory of my cousin’s hand down my pants or the seared imprint of ‘playtime’ with an adult neighbor or any myriad of the fucked up and too-wrong-to-write-here events, my body wasn’t mine. It belonged to someone else.


My agency wasn’t mine. My words weren’t mine. I was a puppet, existing for the sole purpose of the sick and deranged pleasures of people too obsessed with their own satisfaction to notice they were destroying another human being. Maybe they noticed. Maybe they just didn’t fucking care. 


A human blow up doll. Imprisoned by the chains of things I’d rather not think about. Stuck in the permanent feedback loop of “your body is not your own”. Living in some sort of alternate hell where every day is groundhog day and no matter where I go or what I seek, I am and always will be a caricature of the sexual possibilities. Where men ridicule normal sexuality, promote sexual objectification, endorse and perpetuate sexual assault and then legislate my sexual healthcare, all while discussing how the victims who are coming forward decades later about the abuses they’ve suffered are liars and opportunists.


I’m not a person. We are not people. We are a headline. We are tragedies on a television and in a newspaper, someone else’s problem. Because ‘thank god that wasn’t my husband/brother/father/dad/me’ (this time)... And then abuse is normalized, equated into something uncontrollable. 


Maybe the rapist was raped as a child. 

Maybe the molester was molested.

Maybe the groper was groped.


And slowly, the same line emerges — they are without fault. And nothing is actually done. And the abuse continues. And we’re left to deal with the ashes of the rage that burns silently until we just combust and start cutting off dicks.


But then we’re the ‘crazy ones’. Not because we’ve been abused and gaslighted and brutalized until everything is on fire, but because blind rage finally takes over and there are visceral repercussion that have lasting consequences.


“All I got from the Circus in Hell was this shitty t-shirt and a really fucked up sense of humor, (along with a few deeply unhealthy coping mechanisms and rage issues).”


But I’m writing this. Which means it’s not too late.