If there were a stronger word for Rage, I would use it.

It’s what I felt when I was lying in my bed last night, heart booming in my ears. I wrote this in my head, a word for every beat. Would. I. Be. Able. To. Stop? So many words rushing to the front of my mind. My heart racing to keep up. 

Rage is coming through my skin, my pores, through the strands of my hair. It’s filling the space behind my eyes and tears keep threatening to fall at the most random times. It’s falling from my mouth to my daughters over mashed potatoes and asparagus. It’s trying to be protective, but feeling defeated at the same time. I look at their faces and wonder when, not if, they will be in this space of helplessness and anger. When will their words not be trusted, if they have the courage to speak them at all? How can I wrap myself around them and take the hits that the world is aiming at them. They are fire and I see the fight in them already- recognizing that they Know so much even at their age.

Rage is knowing that way more than half of my female friends have experienced assault or harassment from men. Looking at my “Friends” list and seeing faces of survivors, acknowledging that these are only the ones that I know about.  Realizing that right now they are reliving their trauma and pain- as if it had happened just yesterday.  

Rage in knowing that some of us. Hundreds of us.  Thousands of us. Too many of us are right now remembering spaces in our past where maybe… But I was drunk so… But I invited him over… It wasn’t totally… I didn’t tell anyone because… Was it even…?
Yes, sis, it probably was.

Rage towards men right now. Good men, but men who don’t stand up. Who listen to bravado of..I would hit that…. That fucking whore…That mouth tho…Fucking dyke bitch…She’s only good on her knees…  Why aren’t you gouging their eyes out and punching them in the throat? Why aren’t you in the streets with pitchforks and your fists raised? Why does it have to be your mother or your sister or your daughter? Why can’t it be because we’re human? Why must there be a name of recognition before you act?

Some good men are thinking. Thinking about a time where maybe? But we were drinking so much….She liked to party too…She didn’t say no….She didn’t say yes, but…It didn’t mean anything…I wasn’t mad so… But, did I?
Yes, you probably did.

This rage is also heartbreak, but fury is so much easier to voice. The scream deep within me isn’t enough. A howl would be more appropriate. A wail might be able to carry the weight of this Thing that I have inside me right now. This Knowing that we think that we’ve come so far but, we haven’t moved at all.