Laying the Rage to Rest

Welcome to the first day of the year, bitches! [pulls confetti out of my pocket and half heartedly blows a kazoo]. I have no idea what each of you have been through this past year circumstantially but I can say with great certainty that save for a few things, I am delighted to leave the last year behind me. In my mind it’d be a great final scene to a movie, where I am walking away in slow motion, hair askew, soot on my skin, explosions still going off behind me. I’m smiling with what little energy and hope I have left, walking toward a different horizon. 

I’ve been thinking a lot this year about rage. Specifically, mothers’ rage. My rage has run deep in the aftermath of my marriage ending. Personally, nothing has solidified more than the last year that much of the social graces I had - actually, the social graces of mothers in general - are balanced precariously on our ability to follow the rules handed to us within the social framework. I learned that for many mothers, our own lived experience in the reality of our lives, our mental health, our desire to live a life that doesn’t ransack our soul and leave us depleted is less important than keeping the whole production running smoothly. I learned that the name of the game for many is: the nuclear family at all costs, even if you are the cost.