Posted April 12, 2015 by Lē Isaac Weaver
Today I’m writing about all the difficulties swirling around those of us occupying the margins, and how hard it is to remember we are only tasked with creating Her peace in ourselves.
I’m tired of so many of my state’s politicians doing and saying embarrassing things. (I live in Indiana.)
I’m tired of walking around wondering what conservative Christians who oppose LGBT equality will think of next in their effort to reinforce our marginalization and their own isolation from us.
Tired of being treated as less than, unequal to, or a special case.
Tired of trying to figure out if I can watch the local news yet without someone saying something demeaning about people like me.
Tired of a world in which there are so few words to accurately describe an experience such as mine.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m angry.
My partner, my friend in recovery, and my therapist all tell me that anger doesn’t have to look like yelling and shaming and ruining things. That there’s no chance mine ever would. But the anger I’ve seen wrecks things and people, and explodes into so many sharp little pieces that you can never hope to clean all of them up from inside you. I’m terrified of anger.
But I have to listen to what I’ve been saying, read what I’ve been writing. And I see it there, I hear it there. Because it’s starting to seep out.
I feel it in me, like a full pitcher that keeps spilling no matter how slowly and carefully I try to walk. There’s no room for more of it, simply no room. And yet I can’t help doing the only safe thing I’ve ever done, swallowing it, choking it down. But there’s no more room and I don’t think there’s anything else I can do to stop it.