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I Can't Breathe

When I get angry, I break shit.

 

It’s not pretty and I hate that I let things build to the point in which my anger, rage, and frustrations get taken out irrationally, but it’s a part of me. A beautiful part of me.  You’ll know when I’ve had enough, when my boundaries have been so violated that something else takes over to let you know just how far past that line you’ve gone.

 

Destruction out of frustration started for me early.  Maybe I was born with it? Maybe we all are?  I can remember clenching a pencil in my tiny hands and drawing big dark circles on the page in my journal until that page ripped, under the constant pressure from my pencil. I’d keep going, around and around, with my HB pencil, tears staining the pages, making them easier to rip under my pencil tip. Sometimes, I’d shred through a dozen or more pages before my arm tired and my tears dried.  I’d collapse into my lead dust, exhausted. 

 

Fuck, that felt good. 

 

Soon, I realized how good the sound of a smash felt.  Picture frames of boyfriends, vases, plates, phones.  I’m lucky I have anything breakable left after burying a baby.  I never hurt a soul with my rage, that was never the intention of the break.  Rather, the break was attached to how broken I felt, a visual representation of my soul in the moment.  I’d stand, when the rage ended, over shattered pieces, breath escaping me.  I don’t know who it was for, the display of anger, because it was never put on for others.  I guess, in effect, It was just for me.  Look at this, look at how broken you are.  Fucking clean it up!

 

Fucking clean it up. 

 

Perhaps this is where the cathartic part of rage comes in -  the tidying.  Put it all back together, better than before.  Rip out the pages from the journal, toss them in the fire, smooth the cover, and place it back on the shelf.  That journal will never remain the same, and neither will I.  This isn’t always a bad thing.  Sweep the glass from the floor -and, if you are lucky enough, you will have someone to hold the dustpan for you, someone who doesn’t judge and who is there to remind you that it is time to rise up.

 

So, I get it.  I’m not judging, and I hear you.  I rage with you.  I watched the video, horrified like everyone else.  A man’s life was extinguished under the knee of an officer of the law while others stood guard, while others watched, hopelessly, their cries falling on deaf ears.  It’s inconceivable that the pleas of the bystanders fell on the same deaf ears.  He can’t breathe.

 

Now we all can’t breathe.

 

So, rage on.  I get it.  Don’t hurt anyone. Show the world how hurt you are, how broken the system is.  And, when the time comes, lets fucking clean it up.  Everyone needs to clean this up. I’ll be standing there with the dustpan.

 

 

 

 

School Year, 2020

This Year