I’m in rage. We all write such nice placid pieces about how we’re just like other disabilities, but this is the hard truth of it. We can be monsters. We’re not like other disabilities where people fall apart physically but remain basically nice. Sometimes I think we should be locked up. There’s no place for us to go: our relatives just have to endure us when we’re not bad enough for the hospital. Even if they sent me to the hospital, every idiot knows how to pretend to be nice enough to get out.
A week ago – a WEEK ago – I was set off when someone was supposed to go on an unaccompanied date to the movies. Two hours in a dark theater with an intellectually challenged young woman. Turns out he was to be chaperoned, and the date never happened. But since then I can’t stop thinking about his past victims. Also how the system is set up so that he is not charged. Also how the last time, his shopping privileges were brutally cut off for two weeks as a consequence of his actions. Also how he has the human right to pursue a relationship, but his dates do not have a right to know his past.
Rage. He also rages, at people in his path, his coworkers, his staff, his family: throwing, biting, spitting, this and that.
Rage. He doesn’t remember any more how his relatives and others molested him.
Rage. I will no longer let him touch me at all, even though this is an extreme measure. I will spend holidays alone because he will be there. Even though I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not my fault.
Rage. Because someone molested me in a dark theater when I was a young person, and no one stood up for me. Rage of all rages, and maybe irrational.
Rage. Nice girls don’t get angry. I only acted hurt and scared, not angry.
Rage. I’m not a nice girl today. They’re trying new drugs to get me nice again.