“A woman’s first blood doesn’t come from between her legs but from biting her tongue”
— Meggie Royer, The No You Never Listened To
I destroy things when I’m angry. Not physically, of course. Only figuratively, throwing chairs and shattering glass vases against the walls of my skull. Outside, I am a picture of serenity. I’m probably doing something mundane, like taking out the garbage, or folding my clothes, sipping from a glass, or brushing on my mascara. You could always tell, though, by the slight and silent lift of my brows. The harsh look in my eyes, the expectant look. Goading, begging whoever or whatever I’m mad at to simply give me a reason.
The men I know throw tantrums. Fists fly into walls, crutches get tossed down stairs, furniture tipped over and doors slammed. I’ve never been allowed that luxury. Expectations are different. Good girls don’t get violent. They don’t punch or scream or destroy—at least not anything other than themselves. They simmer. And simmer. And simmer. And simmer.
I hadn’t been this particular brand of angry in almost a year. The kind of angry where if I didn’t keep moving, didn’t give my body something to do, didn’t flush it out, I probably would’ve broken something like the vase of tulips on my coffee table or my own hand. And that’s simply not polite. So last Thursday, I shoved on my sneakers, turned on my headphones and stomped around suburbia until my hands stopped shaking and I could breathe deeply without crying.
Female rage is a unifying experience. It’s rooted, systemic, born of a kind of generational turmoil that feels almost never-ending. A curse no kiss, potion, or sacrifice can shake.
Or was my rage my mother’s? Or her mother’s? Or hers? An inherited creature?
—Lidia Yuknavitch; Letter to my Rage
It lives in my body; burrows itself between my ribs, in the hinge of my hips, the sensitive spots behind my ears, at the tips of my fingers. Dr. K gives me books to read all about how the stress of my anger is ravaging my system. I try and explain to her that it has nowhere else to go, nothing else to rip apart. Its momentum forces a ricochet from my chest, to my gut, then up my throat, and I swallow it back down, over and over. It’s probably calcified now, a jaded stone I can’t pass.
I practice mindfulness like she says. I go to ballet; I employ radical acceptance; I imagine myself walking down a spiral staircase from the top of my head down to my gut.
My staircase has grey metal steps. There’s an echo when I walk down. Pieces of trash in the corners, fire alarms on the walls that I can see as I descend, just in case. She tells me none of that’s important, and I tell her that dressing the set is what centers me. To no one’s surprise, I’ve been retreating into my imagination for years. Trying to erase the bad, but ultimately painting something new right over it, lint bumps and air bubbles be damned.
There’s a beautiful kind of ugliness to female rage. It’s the same kind of beauty that we often find in suffering when it’s showcased in art—on screens, in novels, in victorian-style paintings. It’s fun to romanticize it, to theorize on it, to imagine yourself as Cassie of Euphoria, Nina of Black Swan, or Amy of Gone Girl. The truth is, though, it fucking sucks. It blows. To simmer with no release can taste like poison. It can hurt in your gut; create an unrelenting pounding at the base of your skull. You can blow up your whole life, say things you don’t mean. Make yourself sick.
That Thursday, I stood at the corner a few streets over and tried not to scream at my partner at the other end of the line. I had called for comfort, but all he could offer me was his own frustration. Why couldn’t he hold it down the way that I did? Why did he think I wanted more? Why did he expect me to hold his anger when mine was more than enough? He said he was frustrated because he was worried about me, the situation. He didn’t want things to escalate to the point where he’d need to step in, and I had no choice but to swallow a bitter laugh. I wanted to remind him that I never needed him before. That I’d been victim to offenses he knew nothing about. That I’ve stood my ground for the last ten years, that I didn’t need him to step in because I never have and never would. I wanted to curse and laugh and introduce him to the part of me he’s never had the displeasure of meeting. Instead, all I said was okay. I said it until I could hang up the phone.
I walked another three miles. I went home and kissed my dog. I poured myself half a glass of wine. I pressed play on Florence + the Machine’s How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful, cranked the volume until her voice crackled, and let her drain my anger to the dregs.
When does it end? When does my stomach stop hurting? When does my jaw go slack? When do I get to rid my gut of the sediment that’s always left?
This is really beautifully written, and I can definitely relate.
I was in a relationship once with a guy who punched walls when he was angry. I had a bit of a meltdown (involving screaming into a pillow, but no punching or breaking anything) and then, I was the one who was unstable and feral.
It is incredibly infuriating how people see such differences between men and women's rage. The man is seen as passionate and emotional, whereas the woman is seen as on the verge of a breakdown.
Therefore, as I'm sure you can imagine, I got extremely frustrated by the phone call, at the end!
Beautiful - thank you!