RAGE... so discriptive for such a small word. To anyone who has truely seen it in action, it sends a chill down the spine, and raises goosebumps on the skin. Even those who only think they understand it, fear it... dread it.
It's a Monster that lives inside me, it's home created by an abusive upbringing.
For a time it lived nearly free, able to rise at will and attack, often for little-to-no cause...
until, at 13, I beat a drug-dealer senseless, leaving her to be hospitalized with several bones broken in her face...
I don't remember the attack, beyond my vision washing red with her in my sights... until I was being dragged off her by a friend, and hauled away before the police could arrive...
I became afraid of The Rage, and began a lifelong struggle to bind the Beast...
ignoring my irritation, swallowing my aggrivation, choking on my anger...
What I didn't realize was I was feeding the Beast even as I chained it with cobwebs...
Then my baby brother was killed.
He suffered most from my ire, as we grew up, (sisters and brothers being what they so often are, and we were,) though probably he deserved it least...
He deserved even less to die as he did... our own mother at ultimate fault.
The chains I had applied to the Monster snapped like the cobwebs they were constructed from, and the Rage ran free.
It had grown, oh how it had grown! And so had my fear of it.
I spent the first 6 months after my brother's murder in a fog... afraid to leave my house... not even sure what I was afraid of... Even the thought of taking out the garbage or getting the mail from the superbox left me curled up on the floor bawling and barely able to breathe from the intensity of the panic attack.
I needed people I could trust to be there all the time... to take me places, to shield me from the world...
They thought I was afraid of what was out there...
They thought they were protecting me...
But really, they were protecting the world from the Beast.
My mother sent me a letter just around my birthday. I could hear her tears as I read it, thought she might actually be trying to reach out and finally be the mother I had always hoped for.
My grandmother sent me a bus ticket.
I made a trip back "home" to visit with my family during a lull in the horrible fear that had become a huge part of my life.
I found my grandmother blaming Kenny for his own death...
My mother had fallen into the habit of cradling the box of Kenny's ashes like a baby, swaddled in a blanket, totally unable to accept the responsibility for her part in his murder...
Most of the rest of the family seemed to have moved on... like he didn't really matter anymore.
I came home.
My boyfriend at the time, who had come with me as my shield from the world returned to find his mother ill and needing surgery, and no-one able to care for his disabled father. Without a blink, I stepped into the role of caregiver... the role that I had been forced to so often, that I actually believed it was my choice... I spent 3 solid days caring for my boyfriend's mother in hospital,while he cared for his father at home.
Just when every one was doing better, and his mom was ready to go home, I broke down...
I attacked my boyfriend for no reason I can remember... climbing over a table and trying to rip out his throat with my teeth...
I spent a few weeks in hospital... psych wards can be interesting places, and restful, if you're lucky.
I learned alot about myself, about the Beast, and I started out-patient therapy with a wonderful therapist.
The Beast still lives inside me... it always will.
But with the help of friends, and my wonderful therapist the Beast wears a muzzle and leash, and it'll "go lie down in a corner" when it's told to.
It's still a dangerous Beast, but my Rage is tamed to my hand now. As it should be.
No comments:
Post a Comment