Anger

I came up with this account well before I was ready; even now, I’m not sure what exactly I was bracing for. I imagined I would begin all of this with an introduction, but come to think of it – that’s waaaaay too normal and predictable for me.

In lieu of a fun introduction (which I’m sure will come with time when I’m feeling way more fun), I’ll say this:

I wanted to create a space to exist in this world, without fear of being found, accompanied by brazen words and a bulletproof purpose. I’ve been writing for a while, but I stopped writing for a couple of years because, well, life. 

I picked writing back up this summer, and I’ve been keeping most of it to myself because I realized I was overdue. Writing and reading my own words has served my healing in that it’s allowing me to validate my reality instead of deny it. 

Also, though, rough drafts can be…rough. 

Social media has been unkind to me in that it’s been a vehicle by which total strangers have the power to disrupt my bliss. To be specific, there are women who have found me and shared with me things I wasn’t ready or prepared to know. The knowing that these moments brought about created serious discomfort in my life, and broke apart relationships I thought were intact – they put the microscope on this illusion of trust I thought was real.

But social media is also where I found other gorgeous fat people who look like me, brilliant writers and teachers and practitioners who inspire me – people who have ultimately helped me to be more myself, every single day. Even as I stare at the rubble. I can say that it’s done more good than bad. Even the bad was for my eventual good. 

There’s a lot that’s finally behind me – better yet, there’s a lot ahead. 

Most of what’s ahead is unknown right now. So unknown that I’m writing this from Sweden where I am staying with my sister to rest, enjoy my #FunEmployment, reconnect our sister souls, and to finally exhale.

The biggest obstacle I can make out from this vantage point is: anger. Anger ought to be honored, explored, and understood; anger tells us that there’s something just below the surface.

It’s not the kind of anger you feel when your plans have had to be modified a time or two, or when the GPS adds 11 minutes to your ETA. It’s not the kind of anger you know will dissipate in the morning. Or the morning after that. 

It’s an anger that boils up when you realize how absolutely wrong you were about someone. You were duped. It’s the anger that shows up when you realize how easy it was for someone to look at you in your eyes and tell you a lie. More than once. It’s the kind of anger that makes your heart flutter when you’re trying to fall asleep – but all you can think about is the names you were called by someone who also issued “I love yous.” It’s the anger you feel when your inner world and physical body have been trampled on more than metaphorically.

I have a host of friends, family, and chosen people who I believe would rescue, revive, and restore me if they could. I can know this because they have. Time and time again. My honest to god truth? I’m sick of phoning a friend.

I’m angry at myself for not breaking my silence sooner. I know now that I was quiet because I was trying to survive. I’m angry at the person who broke me; not because he tried to break me, but because he never tried to do anything besides satiate his own desires. I’m angry that there are people who will never know what it means to take accountability, and that there are people on the other side of those exchanges who imagine apologies they’ll never get as they press on.

So for now, I’m angry.

I’m writing, and I’m angry, and I’m here. 

Buckle up.

K