I have more mellow moments. I reflect upon my actions, and the manner and form I have chosen to express some of my stronger feelings, and I do not apologise for that. There is a depth of complexity to my life that is not apparent to the observer, and that place of complexity is one of disempowerment, and loss, and an entire spectrum of entirely normal emotional responses. And yes, those responses include anger, and it is proportionate to the scale of that which I have borne. But anger is not socially acceptable for women. Instead, people plaster over the reality of the very real assaults and injuries that we experience with a thin veneer of judgment which questions our stability, our sanity, our capability, as if fury in the mouth of a woman is always born out of our own personal weakness. And some of you reading this (if I ever decide to give you access again) may already have made that judgment about me. There's not a lot I can do about that. But here, in this space, I am not going to censor my anger. I am not going to pretend that I have not been angry, and that my anger has not been an expression in response to very specific circumstances, which if known would prompt similar responses in anyone else. Nor I am going to assume that you, reader, are incapable of developing a more nuanced understanding of the fuller state of mind that lies underneath my spitting vehemence. Nor will I apologise if my anger provokes your own, for any reason, but especially if you feel that my anger towards you and your actions is misplaced. If nothing else, understand that the depth of my distress has at times overwhelmed my sense of the calm benevolence of my relationship with the world and the people in it, and I have encountered instead an indifference and absence of care that belies the undertakings that people have given me about what to expect from them. And that looks and feels like betrayal, and I've worn the real, practical consequences of it in entirety across multiple spheres of my life for a very long time. So suck up your discomfort, sweetheart. It ain't a patch on what I've been subjected to. And I reserve the right to express that, calmly or hysterically, rationally or passionately, accurately or with all the colourful exaggeration that the strength of my emotion demands, here or anywhere else.
I might choose, at some future time, to soften the harder edges of some of my words, in recognition that what I have written is only a piece but not all of my experience, that it reflects one aspect but not others. I might, one day, write more about my hopes, about the good I aspire to bring about, about the privilege of living this crazy, unfathomable life, about the joy of sharing it with multitudes of strangers and seeing the unimaginable take form. I might, in a more mellow moment, reflect more fully on my own agency in bringing about what has occurred, the good and also the awful. I might even acknowledge the sense of unseen support, of small, momentary kindnesses, the encouragement that I've taken from near and far, and the very deep respect, affection and gratitude I feel for the people who have given it. None of that outweighs the mad, bad, sad that has been my lot, but it is something that sustains me and it has helped me enormously while staring into the existential maelstrom of my powerlessness. And I am aware that some of my anger has been directed at the same people who have been that source of strength to me. And I will not apologise for that either. Because it goes to the heart of the complexity that has made everything so difficult for me. But neither can I pretend that no strain has been placed on those relationships, or that people I care about might not turn away from me, burdened by an undercurrent of unresolved feeling. But I hope not. I hope they can find the same strength in themselves that they've helped me to find in myself, and that our care for each other is matched by our courage to express it.
