rage

there comes those times when you have to face uncomfortable truths, or else the uncomfortable buried emotions are just gonna fester and grow into the kind of mold that's swimming on the top of my homemade chicken broth.

i had rage this morning. a beautiful, sunny, quiet, bird-chirping kind of Friday morning. but i wanted to kill. i let my mind wander and sprinkled this hateful fairy dust all over all the women who f*cked with or tried to f*ck with my life. weird, right? until i realised it was rage largely intended for my mother. if i could put this on a metaphorical projection screen, i can dissolve the rage. towards my mom. towards those women. buried rage does nothing for my complexion. i look much prettier when i'm not feel murderous.

this past mother's day, i randomly called my estranged mother - to ask the name of my father's convicted pedophile friend's name, who took a liking to me at age 12. she casually chatted about her memory of him. how he'd confess to my pastor father, that i turned him on by wearing a red dress. then another time, red lipstick. and another, when i failed to cross my legs properly in my nightgown, when he came for a visit to our home once evening. my 12 year old white underwear apparently tempted him also. my dad put the shame on me. a 12 year old girl. i enticed his friend. his friend who is trying to recover from his past sins. shame on me.

this casual Sunday chat in the sun with my mother, unburied some buried rage. it bubbled up and out of my mouth - 'And you didn't think to protect me'? that's when she said, 'what are you talking about? i never knew anything'. huh? then a disney villain cackle came out of her. for an uncomfortable several seconds. she forced that laugh so much, i thought she'd pass out with her weak heart condition.

then all the rage came tumbling out. how dare you swallow two bottles of pills while you held me as you died? i was 9. more cackles.

so. that was that. sometimes secrets have to be shared. sometimes, digging up the buried bullshit is worth the dirt under your nails. sometimes, it's better to look rage in the eyes. sometimes, you need to risk it all - call your mother on mother's day - and be mocked for hurting.

what can we do with our rage? open your mouth. open your journal. open your paint bottles. strum the guitar. it starts with finding the pain, finding your voice, and screaming out loud until it stops hurting. then, who knows? maybe you learned just enough, healed just enough - to help others.

rebel on.

xoxo,

Holly