Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Rage And Illusion tags: , , , , ,


Today was a bad day.

It didn't start out great, but it didn't seem to be heading that way.


Prior, I mentioned that I dwell where I do at the whim of another.

This other, in the interest of saving me from myself, has taken it on themselves to become my teacher and parent, to elucidate the nature of my being (to which, one would nominally expect, I would be the person of first response), and inculcate within my flesh things which they feel best represent the direction they have for me. Forget my right of self direction and determination -- I am in their debt, and so must accede to their wishes, correct?


Have I noted before that I have 3 particular problems in my life, of which one I had thought was solved, and the other two I'm working on?

The first problem I have had since I was but a wee chile, a peculiar lass (to be sure).  It is told as legend among the family, an example of the wilfulness and power inherent in that child. It appears that, at some point in my earliest life, one would ascertain around 72/73 for the timing thereof, my dearest mother (aye, she of the two spoonfuls previously) did something unto me which struck so deep and fierce a chord in me that a kernel was lodged behind my breast bone, in that space I have spoken of before, that metaphorical heart.

This kernel was built out of resentment and frustration and enforced denial. Fairly heady stuff for a child of that age who, until said time, by all accounts, was mercifully without either temper or tantrum, and was, I was assured, like unto an even more angelic version of mine own son.

I spoke, literally, not a word unto my mother for 6 months.  Some accounts claim a full year, and that it was shock and wonder that I ever actually did. Not to ask for something, not to do something, not to know something, not to express something, not to acknowledge something.  If she said dinner was ready, I went to eat. If she said it was bed time, I went to bed. If she asked me a question, I shrugged or ignored it.

I have, myself, been paid in kind for such behavior -- my youngest daughter did the same to me for some three years, and still retains a reticence of verbal interchange in the extreme.

Such things are fundamentally deep.

Since my nebulous memory is already fragmented and timeless, one might note that this was around the time that I blacked out all prior thought from my life, and that it was a good five to 6 years later than my ability to store and recall personal details was somewhat improved (earlier postings demonstrate this).

To that core, which, as a child, I neither understood nor could comprehend, I added each and every further occurrence of such things.  Piling denial and frustration and resentment in a sort of massive ball of twine that one could physically feel within one's core, like focusing your attention on your hand and noting that it is there, I could feel it with each and every breath.

When you put that much anger and negativity into one place, such a small place, when it is filled to the brim, it leaks out.

It started full.

And thus was born my Rage.


The second problem is that I am, likely also as a result of the event aforementioned, inherently predisposed to defy authority.

Despite my ongoing efforts and my firm belief in the principles of this nation, my willingness to accede to the demands that it makes of me are based solely in the manner in which I live my life, and when its principles conflict with mine, I always choose mine. Like my opponents who claim that their God's law is of greater import than those of the US, I claim that, for me as an individual (and no further), that my Laws are of greater import as well.

I'm just lucky they both get along so well, truly.

Whenever anyone presents themselves to me with authority (and, to be fair, it is only when they use that authority on me, personally, not others) it becomes a sticky wicket.

I have a very quick temper, and short fuse (fault of the red hair I lost), and it leads right down into the bomb that is my Rage. When I was young, I did not deal with it in a mature manner: I released, and the subject of my ire was usually fairly well targeted but bystanders were usually affected as well.

As an adult, I developed the principle of withdrawal -- the better part of wise valor, for while I can be (and often am) wrong, I am more often correct, and I learned to use that very same rage as I grew to enable me to learn faster, do more, and, ultimately, prove my point.  In the work world, this usually led to my getting fired, but occasionally also resulted in my promotion -- was a roll of the dice, and the odds always seemed good.


The third problem is that I am, generally speaking, a loner. That is to say, I am happiest when alone, in solitude. I dislike loneliness, but that can be solved with simple discourse and companionship of some sort -- its the interchange I like.  If I need a crowd, I can venture to the mall, and sit in the food court or on a bench and make my never ending observations. If I need a touch, and love, and sharing, well -- I've often been luckier there than I care to admit, but I have had long and sad periods without such, and I suspect the ones going forward will be longer and sadder -- but, in the end, I can hang with that. Not well, but, yes, I can hang. However, being alone does not, in and of itself, make one lonely, and often the solution is little more than five minutes of contact with someone else, when I should need it.

This works well for me, as an individual, as well. I am a writer, first and foremost, before all other adjectives that one might grant as appellation, that is what I am in my core. I am artistic of temperament, and solitary of function, and I prefer by far the demesne within my head to the wider world around it; although, ultimately, what occupies that space is, indeed, the world around it.

As a person of artistic temperament, I am not particularly given to routines not established by myself, and as one might surmise from the foregoing, I am extremely independent and not well suited to the daily task of cleaning or whatnot, until and unless it annoys me (which, typically, I allow it to do about once a week, otherwise relying on whatever is handy at that time).


These three factors, and their concomitant extrapolations, make me something of a difficult person to live with. Or around.

Now add my being TS into that.

I happen to like myself, on the whole, rather a lot. I know myself well, and although I'm still subject to the human foibles, as a result of having heeded that age old admonition, I can take them in stride and deal with them as they come along.  Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always deal with them -- and in my own way at my own speed and time.

But, that notwithstanding, I would not want to live with me, if my world was constructed around routine and security.


I am not safe.

I have committed assault and battery on several people.  Never once my wife or children. I have come close to such, on occasion (the older boy, notably, but also to my mother when I was younger). I have assaulted someone who was my best friend at the time -- a bad thing, since I usually keep my circle of friends small and compact.  I am familiar with physical violence. It comes readily, easily, simply. It feels good.

It scares the shit outta me. 


For the overwhelming bulk of my life, I have had to constantly be aware of this little dragon nestled inside me. I have had to control it, to limit it, to channel it, to use it, and all those many things that are necessary when one has so called anger management issues so that its impact on my life (which was considerable) was minimized. Daily. Hourly. Moment by moment.

So good was I at doing so, that I taught a course in it. A course I was supposed to be taking.  I taught more methods of anger management and channeling than the good doctor overseeing the course had ever heard of.  And, truly,  there is nothing more empowering than anger.  Harnessed, anger is like a nuclear generating station with the output of the sun. It can power thought, muscle, creativity, learning, and more. With it, one can perform feats of physical prowess that are astonishing and outside the norm without much harm, and that's uncontrolled. Imagine being able to harness it.

It was more all consuming than even transition is, more ever present on a daily basis than anything else I've ever dealt with.

I used it to drive my binge writing, channeled it into my need to keep moving, developed my stubbornness around it, and let it hurl me forward more often than not.  It allowed me to do more than most other people did, because I could exist with less.

And, of course, the downside to it is that since I was burning so bright, it was, and is, inevitable that I will burn out sooner.

Like so much of my life, it is killing me.

Faster than the cigarettes I roar through far too fast at even a pack a day. But, fortunately, the other thing shall kill me sooner, barring damage to my heart and liver.


I do not drink often. I can be either cruel or morose under such influence, and the combination of the former with my Rage is a bad idea.


I had thought it was gone.

Anger is not rage. Frustration is not rage. Resentment is not rage. Rage is all three of those things combined, and you toss in hurt and remove rational thought. Becoming enraged is to lose all knowledge, all thought, all humanity, and to become a thing of violent fury, like a tornado; without beginning or end, timeless, for all that matters is that shining, brilliant glory of pure and unvarnished malevolent madness. It feeds itself, like a fire at critical mass, and eats off of slights and injuries. It delights in pain and anguish.

You cannot stop rage. All you can do is either wait for it to pass, or kill it. And, like the werewolf, once you kill the rage, you kill the person. You can contain it, but you cannot stop it.

You can get all romantic -- music soothes it, love cures it, kindness defeats it.

Its fiction.


On that day when I finally broke through denial, I felt it fade away, that knot in my chest.  Over three days, it literally seemed as if someone was pulling on some string that led into me, drawing it out in a constant stream (off to the right, no less). Like the worlds longest stitch being pulled out.

It scared me, but, well, I accepted that. Although I had used it to power everything about my being, and I knew that without that rage I was going to be weaker and slower and sleepier and *less* than I was before, I was ecstatic that it was gone. It made me a better person to lose it. And, after over 30 years of fighting with it, trying to get rid of it, it was akin to a dream realized.

It stayed away for about three weeks, then came back for a few hours, but it couldn't hold on, couldn't find purchase within me, couldn't manifest the fire.

And then it was gone.


Or so I thought.

I write this entry while I am offline.

I am offline in order to disabuse myself of some notion that I am supposed to guess about.

You will find I dislike guessing. I will do it, but not without effective information, and only when there is no source or means for me to find the actuality out -- and then, whenever possible, I will avoid making actions as the result of my guesses.

I am not offline by choice.  I would much rather be working hard and furious on the means by which I had planned, until earlier, to succor myself from the situation I am in.

I don't play head games.  Yes, I will debate and I am pedantic, but the purpose there is to explore and participate. I do not debate a great many topics, because there is no sense in doing so when there isn't common ground shared. Without common ground, I am unlikely to engage in much dialogue at all, other than to ask a question, usually.

I don't have ulterior motives.  Why I will leave for another post, but, in summation: I don't have ulterior motives because by not having any, I gain one: to screw with everyone's expectations. People expect you to have an ulterior motive, and, since I am odd, by not having one, I move outside of them. I am very Wysiwyg. Although I'm currently modifying the gui. Ask me a question about myself, and If I can discern the answer and it is not too private, I will answer. And there are few things about me which are private. Those that are, are so irrevocably. I do not, however, commony volunteer things I consider semi-private (save, perhaps, for this blog, lol)


This is the second night in a row that I am so offline. Without explanation or warning.  I am being taught a lesson of some sort, as if I were a child, at 42 years of age.

I am 2500 miles away from home. At 10 miles a day, that is 250 days away on foot. I have a cell phone. I can call for rides. With a bit of luck, I can get home in 3 to 6 months - maybe less, but I'm not going to get my hopes up.

And yes, I can do that.

I can do that because in the process of trying to do what they seem to think is *helping* me to become a better woman or a more refined person, they have caused me harm.

Grievous harm.

They have allowed the Rage to return. They have brought it back, and yes, for a good  minute it took everything I had to contain it, to not lash out and destroy, to hold back harm, to deny it egress.

And it found purchase again.  I can feel it. A black pit of cold, cold fire that even now nestles into the old, familiar ways.

I've cried now, for 6 hours about it.

And that fed it too.

Tomorrow, which, for me, is merely a few hours away, there will be repercussions.  I will post this.  I will make contact with those few persons I know who know about me and who might be of aid.

And I will begin heading back home.

To be homeless.

With my rage.

But still my own person.


Never again shall I confuse the illusion of aid for the reality of such.  I can no longer afford trust such as that.

Once I am free of my pit, once I have escaped from the situation I find myself in, I shall never allow it to happen again.

I have to thank them, as well. Not merely for the kindness they showed in allowing me this brief respite, but also for showing me that I was wrong about rage.

It never goes away. It just takes a vacation once in a while.

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