Feminine rage is like a caged bird, it was never meant to be caged and can never be more beautiful than when it is set free. The cage is fear of being perceived, fear of upsetting those who are upsetting us, fear that our reaction, that our response to someone else’s wrongdoing to us will send them away. I’ve lived enough years as a slave to that cage, kept so many things within, taken so many hits, been the bearer of the blows for so long. All so that silly, emotional men won’t call me crazy and be done with me. I already have to bear the burden of the monthly bleeding and irregular hormone levels making me sad then happy, tired then full of energy, always going back and forth every single day of the goddamn year forever. Yet here I am fearing he can’t handle a bit of yelling. Perhaps it’s because so many of us have fought the closing door of that cage just once and been met with ultimatums. Take my abuse or never see me again.
I can’t say how or even when but somewhere along the way the cage became a place I needed to be. I couldn’t dare think of doing any different or being any different. Then he came along. And though I kept one foot firmly in the cage throughout my time with him, he pushed and pulled at me to come out. He often held the door open for me and screamed at me asking why I refused to break free? Why would I let people treat me as such? He pushed and pushed until I threw him out of the way and destroyed the cage just to spite him. Then I realized how freeing it actually was to truly be free. To no longer care if he would stay or go based on my expression of how I felt. To finally see my hands and know that I could. The sense of security my spirit finally felt within my bones was unparallel. It feels like finally having two feet on the ground as opposed to a wakeless dream where you’re always stuck and sinking. It’s an incredible strength that I’ve found within myself. And though time has come and passed, my security within has not. I often admire myself feeling powerful when I come across silly emotional boys who can’t handle a woman yelling at them for their wrongdoings. Feminine rage is so dearly beautiful to me since it has been taken away for so long, like a right I’ve been missing out on.
All this to say, I do not aimlessly rage without purpose on poor, random men. However when it is due, I gladly oblige rather than shrink away. And for being able to say that my younger self thanks me.
Mystic River 