You Should Go

I’m mad at the world for dealing me this hand. I'm mad at myself for not dealing with it better. I'm mad my mentors didn't say goodbye. Im mad I found out through automated emails and tertiary texts that my closest friend and therapist from 11-17, Bart, killed himself. I was never told why, it was treated like a restaurant closing. I found out at school. The email said “he was sick, and couldn’t find help.” I'd use that later. In class, I stared into the wooden grain of the table. I was microscopic, standing on the ridges, staring into the valleys, the lighter part of the grain. I was in class. I was no one, nowhere. That month, another one of my mentors died. And another. Denial of anger is just as dangerous as anger— furiously refusing the abject truth in fear of what its acceptance would bring. I told myself “These things happen. I have no right to be upset. They weren't even my friends. It's my fault if I'm angry. It's my fault.” I'm reminded of Bart, Whose last wishes for me were that I was easier on myself. I didn't know they were his last wishes when I heard them. Maybe I would've listened if I did. He tried to tell me: Be angry at someone else. Anger can be a useful tool. I’m reminded of a different mentor who told me I needed to draw boundaries. That mentor who tried to get me drunk. I told him I was driving and he said, “I’ve been driven by drunker.” He put another drink in front of me. I sipped it and he told me to finish. I drove us home and he tried to hold my hand in the car. I pulled away, and he grabbed back. You grabbed back. You said, “let me hold your hand.” You were drunk. I placated you. You clenched your fist around my open palm. We were in my house and I placated you more. I tried moving to other couches so you wouldn't touch me. You felt down my legs, I would pick your hands up and move them away. You would reach toward my face trying to turn it, Feel up the back of my head, Play with my beard and I would move away. I said I wasn’t comfortable and move away, You followed me but not my meaning. I asked when you were ordering your Uber. I needed you out. You were gone and kept texting me. I waited a week. I told you I felt disrespected and like my boundaries were violated, Just like you wanted. I said our friendship can't continue. I told you that you didn't have to respond But you replied instantly with some half-apology, saying you enjoyed it and that you did it cultivate my talent. And I'm fucking furious For a long time my parents, the Buddha Mark Twain taught me anger is like acid which burns the vessel it is stored in more than what it is poured on. It always made sense to me, but I never understood. For a long time I tried to rid myself of anger by throwing it away, forgetting the wind. It splashed back on me. I said it made me strong when it burned, leaving skin spotted, Camouflage, so I could hide. I was always found. One can’t escape themselves. Reality finds and reminds me; I only have so many cheeks to turn before I ought to learn not to keep forgiving reckless hands. Letting go means using what you have. So this is for you, Bart. This is for me, pissed and making something instead of being the vessel that holds and drowns in it. Let go your anger, you have it. Use it. Don't you deserve so much more? Does that make you mad? Good.