What doesn’t show, mostly, is how angry I am.
Some days there’s a voice in my head that grumbles “Jesus Fucking Christ” every time something happens. Every. Fucking. Time. Even good things, like a friend texting me to say we should go get coffee. It doesn’t matter. I just want everything to stop happening.
I’m sorry if I’ve offended anyone. I will spare you the whole rant. I wrote for 23 minutes, and there was a lot of swearing. I know it’s offensive: one of my grandfathers was an Episcopal priest. The other one, however, was basically Archie Bunker.
I have nothing against Jesus. He opened a door in my mother’s kitchen ceiling once, and he waved at me and told me it was safe for me to go to sleep. This was welcome news: it had been at least 4 days. I’d been having that nightmare again, the one about the friendly neighborhood child molester. Anyway, I went to sleep and dreamed I was in a Chinese restaurant. And one of my friends kicked the child molester’s ass all the way into… well, I’d say next week, but actually I never dreamed about him again. Sometimes Jesus still shows up and works little miracles, though.
Lately I’ve started to look my rage straight in the eye. “You’re right to be angry,” I tell it. And often I feel a warm happy glow in my feet, even though I’m still furious. It makes me feel less like punching someone.
What doesn’t show is how hard I’ve worked to make space for the anger. What doesn’t show is the obscene amounts of time and love and money that went into building that space inside me. It was so hard. Sometimes I think I would really like a fucking trophy.
What doesn’t show is that my heart literally hurts sometimes. The older I get, the more this worries me. Like maybe I’ll have an actual heart attack while I’m sitting on the sofa crying at 4 o’clock in the morning. Maybe my heart will literally break. And maybe I’m the one breaking it. Maybe I’m doing it to myself.
What doesn’t show is that I have no family. Not in any meaningful sense. They don’t want me. If you asked them, they might say that they did. But what they really want is their court jester, their comic relief, their class clown. They don’t want any of the sad bits. They don’t want my broken heart.
They don’t even want their own broken hearts.
It really pisses me off.