Anger Dance

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Editorial and Opinion  |  House: Booksie Classic
This was written in the early 2000s sometime, as a homework assignment for my counselor. Because of my disability, most people assume that I am like Pollyanna, always happy or trying to make other people happy. I am most of the time just by my nature, but not always, and I don't have a physical outlet for my anger, so this is what came out, because she wanted me to allow myself to be angry for once. This one is rated R for copious use of the F word, but there is no other adult content. The last line is not negating the whole writing; it's giving myself love and congratulating me for writing it in the first place.

Submitted: November 18, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 18, 2012



These are some words to all the people who say that my life is so blessed, that I have no right to be angry.

If shaking my fist is futile, let me be futile for a while.

Am I proof that God is on crack?

Why did you make me this way?  So you can laugh at my pain, laugh at the fact that I have to struggle so hard to do the simplest things?  Am I some kind of fucking cosmic entertainment?  Where is your grand plan?  Where is your joy?

To my sisters supposed who think I'm gross and embarrassing:

Fuck you.  And be prepared to be embarrassed my whole life, because I'm not disappearing just because you wish I would.

To the supposed mother who calls me a burden:

Fuck you.  You never were my mother if you think that.  You chose me, ostensibly.  And now you're gone.  Look at me weep.  Oh, and guess what?  You know those people that you tried to tear from my life because you didn't want me to know what love felt like?  Well they're back.  And their love is different but as strong as ever.

I'm stronger than your fucking abuse.  Look at my hair.  How long and beautiful it is.  Look into my eyes and see the strength.  I dare you.  I dare you to look up from your deathbed in the future and beg me for forgiveness.  And you know what the really messed up but beautiful thing is?  I'm strong enough to give it to you.  That's a credit to me.  My spirit.  There is nothing I carry from you except survival.  Look back when you sit as a figurehead in my proudest moments like my future wedding, if you even bother to show up.  Look back and be tortured through my smile by knowing that you had nothing to do with shaping the beautiful person in front of you.

To my father:

Fuck you for abusing me, by yourself and by letting other abuse happen, and for pretending that it's all better now because you have a different love and are trying to reach out to me and change things.  Some days I acknowledge that.  Not today.  Today I am standing up to say that I am not your fucking Dr. Phil.  I don't want to solve all of your problems.  You made enough of my own.  And stop trying to grovel in some kind of penance.  Whatever you do can never be enough without my grace, and it's disgusting to watch.

To all of the people who say they love me in different ways that I love them or acknowledge love but don't go for it because it would never work:

Why won't it work?  We could make it work.  Fuck your fear.  Either that or fuck you for letting your fear control you.  Am I not worth trying for?  Am I not worth working around obstacles?  Oh well.  If you don't think I am, then I don't need you anyway.

To all people who call yourself my friends because you see me out and about but never connect with me otherwise:

Fuck you. I need real friends and you do not know what you're missing.  I'm not your fucking social conscience easer and I am definitely not your mascot.

To all Christians and people who would disavow me if they knew I had sex, had an abortion, and/or consider myself queer:

Fuck you and the intolerance your religion teaches.  You don't have any right now to criticize my choices, because none of you were there to help me, even though I asked.  Try walking around in my shoes before you condemn me or any of my friends. This is me now.  I'm standing strong and I will not apologize anymore.

I love you, Amber Marie

© Copyright 2017 AmberOnWheels. All rights reserved.

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