There are so many, many reasons why I am not allowed to tap into my energy.
The primary one, though, is that my sensible, gracious, enlightened self knows that my anger, the breadth, intensity and scope of my anger just isn’t useful or productive.
Nobody can tolerate the level of anger that I bring, finding it overwhelming, offensive and terrifying. That is a key lesson of my life.
If they can’t tolerate my rage, if I have to attenuate and modulate it to exist in polite society, then how can they tolerate any of my emotions, any of my energy?
Anger plays if it is common and cute, something that everyone gets pissed about. When it is queer and laced with sharp thought, though, it becomes too much for people to tolerate. I have the vision, it is clear and they know that at any time, it can be focused on them.
For so many reasons, so many audiences, I have known that if I want any connection I have to negotiate people’s fears, not stimulate and trigger them. I learned how to do that well, taking my own smarts to be there for them, supporting their healing in their own way and in their own time.
To do that, though, I have had to eat all my own inner energy, had to ground it out, had to dial it back and play it down. What is a raging transwoman other than a terrifying guy in a dress? How do Aspergers parents connect with the energy of intense emotion? Can a professional be anything other than considerate and measured?
My anger, though, my anger threads through all of my emotions, all of my incredible and intense life force. I am not meek and mild, I am a goddamn force of nature.
I have been so repressed for so long that the torrent inside of me has gone dusty. I have achieved the platonic goal of feeding everything through my head, analyzing and contextualizing the all my actions, skillful and well disciplined, but in that process, my wellspring of life has been poured down the drain, away and into the swamp I lie in.
You cannot feel any of your emotions without feeling all of them. Since my rage is out of bounds, shameful, counterproductive, I am not allowed to feel it except in self-pity and wistfulness. Without that anger, though, where are the vibrations that can make me feel anything, even feeling good to be alive?
Every day a little death, the death that is clad in politeness, being who others can tolerate, who they need you to be to serve them. I may have been to hell and been tortured by it, but returning with that torment is beyond the bounds of conventional acceptance, beyond the capacity of the audience to tolerate.
“This is a safe space, but it is not safe for crap like that! Too much, too big, too intense, too queer, too overwhelming!”
The joke that they cannot get is the ironic package we wrap pain in to try and make it palatable. Death and rebirth, the crushed cries of a soul twisted in need and abuse. Reasonable, so reasonable, not overwhelming and full of existential torture.
Chronic, repressed psychic pain from a kid who just desperately needed to be touched with love and understanding can become vast when dammed for life. Let out drip by drop, bound up in smart and sharp thought, who will come to reflect the intensity of the pain? Won’t they try and reflect what they want to see, what they want to be there, the smarts and service which can fit into their idea of good and normal?
Deny this, deny that, deny, deny, deny everything, shaped into proper thought, virtuous discipline, sanctified service. Where, though, does the denied go, where does that energy seep into?
I am a phobogenic object, as no matter how blank a face I put on, the well of anger and sharp thought is always there, always ready to challenge, to blow away façades and reveal what others have worked so bloody hard to submerge below their own pleasant, needy, tame wants.
My anger, my anger, my anger, rage and fury, shock and disappointment, vision and knowledge, all too, too, too much for social piety.
Deferential and diplomatic may be tools, but in the end, no matter how many nice ways you find to say “fuck you,” your heart ends up well and truly broken by those who can’t be there, can’t show up with integrity, can’t offer respect, understanding, accountability and compassion.
Too long angry is too much to take. Who is going to be there when the venting is not just furious and torrid, but also caustic and apparently never ending? People have their limits and if you are outside, well, there is no way they are going to empower and succour you. You can tolerate their swings, but they, well they need you to, demand you to, insist you to deny your swings.
If they won’t fight with you, they won’t fight for you. Every kid knows that, knows when they are loved in a way that really sees them really understands them, really values them. When people see scars and run, all the way isn’t there.
Too big for the something. But big is potent, big is real, big is transcendent, big connects heaven and earth.
I have learned how to be who people can tolerate me being. The cost of that, though, from my earliest days, is my own emotions, my permission to feel what I feel and know what I know, the price paid when the mirroring you need is denied.
Many need to learn how to work their emotions, how to be more complete, more balanced, more conscious. This is the available training. It is training I offer, wth joy, with wit, with compassion, with heart.
Tapping into those emotions, though, committing to trust and ride them as the quintessential life force that they are, well, that is much, much harder juju.
I am so angry, so deeply and profoundly angry, so incensed by the crap I see people wanting to get away with, so hurt by the way they minimized and demanded of me that I feel no other choice but to swallow that rage. In the process, though, I swallow my own life force.
I know, I know, I know, I know that people are doing the best that they can, that they need to heal in their own time and in their own way, that you have to approach them with compassion & context, that you need to focus on commonality & agreement, that defence is attack, that you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, that the way to be most effective in the world is to focus on battles that you can win. I’m smart enough. A therapist said to me a few decades ago that I was surprising because after I explained how people around me did stupid and infuriating stuff, I then explained why they did it and how their choices made sense for them.
Still, though, I am not angry enough, not emotional enough, not connected enough, not released enough, not passionate enough to claim the day, the month, the year, the life. I may be reserved and neat, but life, ah, ragged, raw and powerful life, isn’t like that, doesn’t neatly fit into manicured sentences.
What do we have to cut off to fit into polite society, trying to be who others demand to get even a wisp of what we need?
I cut off my own heart.