On Anger
It’s one of my best friends
A few years ago i stopped writing when i was angry. It seemed correct for me to do so. I got the message that my online presence had become bombastic. I was fuming about everything, outraged before it became fashionable. I spewed invective before it was de rigeur. My body was inflamed, poisonous, acidic. My mind was enflamed with fury and it poured out of my mouth and set everything around me on fire.
I was pushing people away.
At first, i thought it might be because they were meek or weak, or i wasn’t close with them, or they just didn’t get it, man. Gradually, though, i realised that i’d become one-note Wanda (sorry, Wandas—it’s the sound i like—nothing at all to do with your online presence). I was a lot, which is fine, but i was a lot with no end in sight: no relief, no respite, no reprieve.
But getting angry saved my life.
I got angry about being abused, being bullied, being religiously indoctrinated, being judged because i was poor and fat, being told i was too loud, and took up too much space. I was pissed off that i’d only been allowed to have other people’s opinions. Social media became a megaphone for my newfound voice.
All that shouting from the rooftops was the key to unlocking the shackles that’d kept me anchored to my captors, though most of…
