Open Journal #15

full collection links 1- 10 . 11-20 . 21-30

I got banned from chat. Obviously I don’t think I should have been, and I’m arguing my point, but not here. I’m four weeks into nightmares and broken sleep, sitting here at 3am alone, missing the company and the support. I’m left sitting with my own rage again.

I started thinking about my inner rage and how it probably pushes me to speak out when it would be smarter to say nothing. I’ve touched on this with The Mentor, but we haven’t fully started on it yet. Maybe it should move up the list. There is a list. It’s growing instead of shrinking.

I believe in that old maxim: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” (Edmund Burke). If you’re in the room, you speak up. Your silence might look like assent. No, I don’t know who Edmund Burke was. I looked it up once — he was an MP who died in 1797 — but honestly, who keeps that info? I always find it baffling when crossword clues think giving you a death date helps. I digress.

This time I didn’t use swears or name-calling. I think it’s wrong to be unkind to people who volunteer. In other settings, sure, I have a full range of Anglo-Saxon words at my disposal, and I’ll throw them around if needed. If you tell me something funny, I’ll laugh; if you make me angry, I’ll say so. The problem is, recently, I keep circling something deeper. Something I never even knew was there, something I don’t even have proper words for yet.

It feels like something inside me is broken at the code level. Like the source code was tampered with. Massive chunks rewritten. I don’t read code, so I can’t just pick up my own damage and fix it. My wife can — she scrolls through it like she’s reading French, tweaks a few things, and boom, fixed. Freaky and awesome. I wish I had that skill.

So here’s my theory: if people who can read my code are saying there’s a reason for the glitches, maybe I should listen. I know nothing. They know something. This anger, rage, blind fury — it’s glitchy. It’s fueled by the abuse. Even if I can’t see it, I can feel it. There’s always been that faint internal scream: “Of course I’m fucking angry, don’t you know what he did?” Obviously you can’t shout that mid-road-rage, but oh well. We’ve all done it. (Unless you don’t drive. In which case, is bus rage a thing?)

Maybe you’re starting to see why I’ve avoided this navel-gazing exercise for so long. It’s not because I’m lazy; it’s because the anger owns me. Like the abuse owns me. It’s had a vice grip on parts of my life it had no business touching.

Hidden in plain sight. I keep coming back to that phrase. It was there, but I couldn’t see it. I have to ignore the flood of idiot-shame that washes over me when I realize it. It was there all along. Once, an old school friend who’d been in the army casually offered to “remove” the abuser from the planet. Ask me on the wrong day, and my answer might not have been so reasoned. I said no, and if I hadn’t, well — best not to talk about it here.

But if anger is all I’ve ever known, what happens when it’s gone?

If I face the real root of the rage, will it destroy me? I’m scared. Scared that when we edit the broken code, I won’t like what’s left. If anger isn’t driving me anymore, then what is? Do I become some calm, rational alien version of myself? Or does it just leave a blank space I have to rebuild from scratch? Am I going to find out first during a “mild” altercation over someone cutting me off in traffic?

I keep getting glimpses of where this is heading and I’m not keen. I struggle to trust the process. I struggle to trust the truth. Mostly, I struggle to trust myself to be up to the task. I have no idea what’s left when you strip away the damage. I’ve asked myself a thousand times what I could have been if this had never happened. I might find out — and I might not like the answer.

I mean, look, I have a wife and dogs and friends. I have a home, croissants for breakfast, new headphones for my birthday. I could just leave it all alone. I’ve coped this far. Why not leave well enough alone?

Because it wasn’t his to take. Or tamper with. Or touch.

For all the times my mouth spoke out of turn — I’m sorry if what I said hurt you. That was never the intent. I’m sorry if my anger leaks into my words. That wasn’t the intent. I’m truly sorry if my abuse was showing. That was never the intent.

The content was on point. I just need to work on the delivery.

The Porch is open … add your voice below.