Sacred Rage
Rage is an interesting emotion for a woman to store in the darkest recesses of her mind and body. It snuggles up cozily near the depths of my personal hell, but the unearthing can feel downright scary like an unfolding zombie movie where no mortals survive. This may just be my perspective on being raised as a good girl, but women aren’t supposed to feel rage - it’s simply not polite in today or any other society for that matter. Somehow we can watch a guy drive down the road with the look of a crazed lunatic and chalk it up to another road rager bites the dust. What would we think if a woman were driving down the road squealing her tires leaving black smoke hanging thick in the air or flipping people the bird because they changed lanes ahead of her a mile up the road? There were times in my life that incensed rage came full force into my body like an alien lifeforce took hold and guided me in ways that seemed completely foreign. Once I got so furious at my boys that I shook my green smoothie as if I ignited a handheld volcano getting ready to blow someone’s shit up. I would not recommend this particular explosive beverage because the green rage remnants stick to the walls to serve as a reminder of a temper lost, but not forgotten. Sometimes you just can’t scrub or paint that rage off the walls fast enough.
I drove my car on a Saturday morning to walk rescue dogs at a nearby shelter with the intention to get a straight-to-heaven-hall-pass or at the very least have a dog companion when I passed over the rainbow bridge. The stoplight turned green and I waited 3 seconds but failed to check the cross street before proceeding forward. A car traveled through a very red light hit my driver side door going 40 mph and spun me around an intersection. I was dazed and confused with a missing tooth, concussion and whiplash. I didn’t take any time off of work which was very typical at the time - don’t feel, just add doctor appointments to the to-do list.
At high noon on the following Monday, a work director was so brutal in her words to me that three other directors called me immediately after to say that she was out of line. Knowing that I was in a car accident, she lobbed those word zingers from behind a parked car and as they landed, they exploded across the Zoom like splattered paint. I just sat there with a dead eyed stare. I stared across the screen into her Zoom eyes and showed complete indifference. It was a form of take-your-breath-away liberation. Not a word or whisper until a nervous director finally broke the stretch of silence. On the call, no one came to my aid, but they let me know privately they were appalled by her behavior. When this exchange occurred a force beyond me was wrestling between strength, weakness and acceptable personal tolerance boundaries. There was a magical wizard behind my subconscious curtain constantly changing the tolerance dial with what once were acceptable insults no longer found a safe harbor. My emotional fortitude was building a moat and her behavior was drowning in alligator infested waters.
Now in the moment, I did the right thing, but after that encounter, it haunted me. I sent an email encouraging her to treat people with kindness and she didn’t appreciate my feedback. The role reversal didn’t work for her. I was admonished by a director for even addressing it and walked away with a hand slap that sent me spinning with the challenges we face when we finally rise up. Then rage stepped into the front door of my house grabbed me by the hand. It taught me how to hold my head up high and how to slam a door behind me. The rage was sacred, quiet, and empowered.
I did not need to react senselessly when rage barged into my front door. It fueled the departure, lit the true north path forward and I built a bigger moat. I got the opportunity to do right by myself and use the available fuel source for the phoenix to rise out of the ashes. As a side note, I have used that dead eyed stare since that fateful Zoom call with much success - it’s silent, indifferent and comes from a knowing that stretches the vastness of my being while whispering to me that holding my ground is what leads me back to believing in myself. When I reflect back on my life, what are other times I wished I had the courage and gumption to offer a perp a dead-eyed-stare lighting my torch of change ablaze? Now, that I have this tool, how will it help me hold boundaries?
Song: I’ve Got the Music in Me by Kiki Dee. Hopefully this song gives you a little bit of badassery.
© Katie Baker 2024
