RAGE

He stands next to the bed, two coffee cups in hand. “Brown or yellow?” I look up from my phone, instantly enraged but mustering supernatural restraint, merely shrug a shoulder. After some hesitation, he gently places the yellow one on my nightstand. Coffee in bed is usually a cozy early morning ritual, but somehow, I have filled it with confusing tension.

What is wrong?

Nothing. Everything! I am filled with RAGE.

What about? 

Such a reasonable question. 

I can’t talk about it. 

But I can write about it because words written can’t be SCREAMed quite so loud.

I rage. I rage. I rage. I rage because my dreams are filled with radioactive horrors due to a movie I watched at our adorable little theater. I rage because caged dogs and pigs were put within a nuclear bomb fallout radius to “see what would happen.” I rage because an official government document states that natives of Guam “…are closer genetically to us than to mice, so studying the effects of radiation on these downwind populations would be beneficial.” I rage that it was a movie that needed to be made. I rage that I am a better person for having seen it. I rage.

I rage because the director got up in front of the crowd and begged us to call Mike Johnson, current Speaker of the House of Representatives so that the House could vote on the RECA “Downwinder” bill. I rage because the only way this happens is if enough of us beg and finally get so mad it makes this very small man nervous he might be toppled from his throne high above the radiation zone. Too much begging. I rage. 

I rage that my grandson’s mother is afraid he will grow up normalizing suicide if she doesn’t perfectly parent through the aftermath of his favorite Uncle Adam’s death. I rage that there is no way to explain the grief, shame, guilt, and emotional complexity of suicide to a six-year-old. I rage that so many young men between the ages of 20 and 29 choose death rather than life as it exists on earth at this moment. I rage that my beautiful brown-eyed, joy-filled son is now a statistic. I rage. 

I rage when people expect me to prioritize their emotional needs during one of the worst seasons of my life. I rage that I apologize, use kind, gentle, emotionally intelligent language, and soothe when an appropriate response would be to RAGE. I rage. 

I rage that a tiny, tiny bit of what Donald Trump does and says makes sense - like making Mexico responsible for who and what flows across its borders into ours. - like rounding up known Venezuelan gang members and deporting them. - like telling European heads of state that Putin is more their problem than ours, so better pony up more cash and lots of it. I rage that I can’t have a rational discussion about these challenging, confusing issues with anyone I know because the political climate in our country is so toxic. I rage. 

I rage because our current President is allowing his psychopath cronies to gut the heart and soul of the US Forest Service, a federal institution that gave me an idyllic childhood, put my brothers through college, allowed my husband and I to raise our kids on one income and is paying the bills and fulfilling the career goals of my daughter and her partner. Their mascot is a goddamn BEAR, for f#&*’s sake! I rage. 

I rage because this weekend is Meteoric, an arts extravaganza a community 10 times our size would be proud to host. I rage because all these amazing people will not have me in the audience to admire and learn from their art because my emotionally traumatized social battery is in the negative digits. I rage because all those responsible for making this happen will think I don’t appreciate their vision, their heart, and their months of work. I rage. 

I rage that I can’t hold a conversation for longer than a few minutes without looking for an escape. I rage that I often don’t remember what street a friend lives on. I rage that I read the same sentence over and over and have no idea what the words mean. I rage that I forget the names of people I have known for years. I rage that I had to look up my grandson’s birthday in the address book because it might be next month or maybe the month after. I rage because I have lost who I am and am confused by the person emerging from the ashes of grief. I rage. 

I rage because I have become the kind of person who finds the decision between a brown cup and a yellow cup so exhausting and infuriating that I give my husband the silent treatment just because he woke up early and brought me a cup of coffee. I rage. I rage. I rage. 

I rage for every reason and… for no reason at all.

 I rage.