Sunday, May 4, 2014

what makes you angry?

It's easy to stand on a soapbox and preach, but once you step down from the high, all that's left are the words that hang in the air around you like cobwebs that stick to your hair as you run through the haunted corners of society's darkest places.

It's easy to be angry, to hold onto it and say, "Yeah, this will fuel my passion," but it's easier, actually, to let it sit on your shoulders because it's easier to be crushed into submission than to carry a weight above you every day--a weight labeled "imperfect," labeled "scarred," labeled "exhausted," and filled with every moment that has fanned the flames inside your soul.

I've been thinking a lot about the things that make me angriest, and I've narrowed it down to this:

One: When I was eight-years-old, a doctor told me I could "live a normal life," as if the condition that scarred me automatically labeled me as an eyesore. I later asked myself as I sat alone in my room if I would ever be beautiful, and the walls filled with posters and pictures of celebrities answered the question with their silence.

Two: I was 18 when I let the words "I love you" wrap themselves around my neck like the noose I prayed for as the executioner hovered over me for an eternal night that lasted years after I finally cut myself loose. But I think the scars were meant to last so I could show them at 21 to a confidante-in-waiting who fought the injustice of a system I was never brave enough to face as a victim because she was a survivor, and so were the ones I never knew existed beside me.

Three: He called me "whitewashed." It was meant as a joke.

It's easy to be angry until it paralyzes you, and you end up wearing your anger as a "warning" sign so others will know not to get too close or else they'll end up being driven into the ground right beside you.

It's easy, but I'm not interested in "easy."

Give me the wood and I'll build my soapbox. Give me the hammer and I'll make sure the pounding echoes as far as my labor will carry.

If anger is an emotion that is "easy" to feel, then give me the anger to counter it so I can push myself back up out of the hole I began digging the moment you handed me the shovel.

I'm not ready for "easy."

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