Rage

I’ve been thinking a lot about rage. How it sits inside me like a dormant volcano ready to wake up. I promised myself I would let my mother’s trauma die with her, but that’s easier said than done. Because her trauma made her. Which means her trauma made me. I am every punch, every push, every stab she endured. I am the pain she carried with her. The distrust, the frustration, the desperation, the annihilation. I am all of it, even if it’s not active. I can sense it, underneath the surface.

 

Rage.

 

I think about it and then I feel it. A self fulfilling prophecy.

 

Rage.

 

Because the only reason she is dead is because she got hepatitis c from a blood transfusion after being raped, stabbed 17 times and left for dead after she and her best friend got into an argument and she kicked my mother out of the car and told her to walk home.

 

Rage.

 

The ugliness in me wants to message that friend and ask her if she ever blames herself for my mother’s rape and now for her death.

 

Rage.

 

If I ever came face to face with the rapist it would take everything, everything inside me not to rip him to shreds with my bare hands. Pulling out his hair, ripping off his fingernails, gouging out his eyes, ripping him apart piece by monstrous piece.

 

Rage.

 

I can feel it rising up in me – I want to scream and flail and beat the ground but nothing comes out. Not a single limb moves.

 

I feel rage for my mother’s death.

I feel rage because I couldn’t save her.

Rage for the guilt

Rage for the pain

Rage for the ending

Rage because I’ll never see her again. Hear her laugh. Crawl into bed and watch tv. Have her play with my hair and chat about nothing. Everything.

 

Rage because she already endured so fucking much. So why did she have to die like that? Why did she have to have her trauma kill her? Why did she have to have her trauma kill her? Why did she have to have her trauma kill her?

 

I feel rage! I feel rage I feel rage I feel rage I feel rage I feel rage I feel rage I feel rage I feel rage I feel rage

 

Her trauma poisoned her as it slowly killed her body while simultaneously taking her mind. Vomiting blood, hearing voices, being found dehydrated in her car on the side of the road, more vomiting blood, septicemia, depression, not remembering things, not being able to stay awake, losing weight, fluid in the abdomen, more vomiting blood, being found in her apartment out of her mind with blood and diarrhea everywhere, falling, falling, endless falling, cracking her head open, more blood, more fluid in the stomach, more weight loss, more memory loss, more falling, more fluid more weight gone till there’s no more left just skin and bones more memories gone till there nothing left more falling more grunting more frustration more dying more fluid more loss more loss more loss more loss more

 

Rage. I feel so much rage.

 

And

 

then

 

it subsides

 

the tears dry

 

my heart slows back down

 

the heat in my body dissipates

 

rage takes up so much energy

 

I try to fight it because I actually don’t find it productive

 

But that doesn’t matter

 

Because it exists

 

And I feel it. I feel it. I am it.

 

Even after an eruption happens

And everything becomes still in its wake

I know that it’s still there

It will always be there

Because I will never not be in grief

Because I will never not be fucking pissed off about it

 

So I have to learn to live with it

 

Rage.

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