There's this ball of rage just growing in me, pulsing ominously every now and then, that kind of sick sinking feeling, impotence. I feel it in the flushing of my cheeks, breath catching in my throat, and just this bile rising, rising, a flood of hatred and angry words, that desperate flailing. It's just the injustice, I guess, the same feeling of my childhood. Knowing that this is wrong, wrong, wrong, feverishly feeling it all the way down to my bones, this is wrong, but knowing you are powerless and they always get away with it. The grownups. They do what they want, and they don't listen, and young and helpless you can't find the words to explain, words powerful enough to break through the fog they've put you in. So instead you seek the words to wound them, knowing still that nothing is strong enough, poison enough, because all you have words and words are nothing.
I've been having these dreams about murder. And all I have is some flimsy object, a plastic bottle, a pillow, and yet I go about methodically killing. Just hitting and hitting and hitting as hard as I can - calm, not flustered or sweaty. But just knowing my best chance is to keep going and going and not stop. So I take my bottle and I slam it into her face again and again and I hold her down and I watch the blood and I hit her harder and my arm never gets tired and I just keep trying and trying, hoping that soon it will have been hard enough or long enough and I will win. I haven't won yet. She never dies.
Look, I never set out to be political, and this isn't. I've felt almost ashamed, like some cliche of a figure on the evening news, embarrassed to call attention to myself, and this difference I now find myself in. I never wanted this. I want to be left alone in my love. I pull her in to me and at the same time push away from the inside. It's too much, and I've always sensed it. I squeeze her tight, tighter, craving pressure, and always feel the distance. But it's slowly disappearing, and one day I know I'll succeed, be clean and naked and free, forgive myself for everything, forgive the world maybe, stop fearing pain. In any other story that would be the happily ever after and all we need. In every other story that could be the end, and as we embrace the world would slowly turn, and there we'd stay, safe in some secret place. But we don't get that. We get the constant prickling at the edges, like needles, slick and dripping black oil, methodically tearing holes in the membrane around us, letting the warm air out. I can feel their icy breath behind me. Just leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone.
I want to sweep my arms and draw wide swaths, separate out all the chaff. Maybe if I was just more organized, better at measuring who is and who isn't, if I could draw magic circles of protection wherever I needed them. But I don't know who the enemy is, and there's too many of them. When I think I understand who they are I am always surprised. Someone I thought was safe, isn't, and it's back to the drawing boards. But like words, what are my drawings? I used to think they had some power, that if I tried for long enough I could find a way to pull out that power inside me and someone would see. I don't think that even more. Like words, they are just cheap, and once again I am ashamed.
In just a few months we will stand in front of all the people we love, who we hope love us, and we'll say we're married. I love her. I love her so much. This should be the best time, this is the time I should get to float around, indulge myself in girlish fantasies, be swathed in pink and joy and light. And instead I just feel that thick blackness bubbling through my insides, crumbling away at all my careful edges. I see your faces and I turn away. I want to draw you in, be with you, have a family, a community, be protected and raised up, join hands. But I retreat further into the forest of briars, creating my own hell. Like a teenager again, I am alone and misunderstood, drowning in fury, aware of my own helplessness, the futility of my feelings and I spiral down, down, down.