I don’t know when it was I ran out of space for outrage. I can’t remember if there was a singular sudden clap of thunder-like something or whether love just seeped in through all the cracks.
I do remember thinking that, when I finally noticed, my brain went to “Something is wrong with me. Maybe I’m just numbed to it all.”
We do that, don’t we? To try to make newness make sense? Our go-to isn’t that it must be ‘so right’ but that there must be something so wrong. I remember the time one of my first clients said, “I don’t know what’s happening but I’m not angry like I used to be. I used to be angry all the time! It’s just not right!” My response at the time was, filled just the right amount of sarcasm, “You mean it’s wrong to not want to punch the wall all the time?”
We’re accustomed to dis-eased or uneasy/eased and dis-ordered labels as ways of being; they’re comfortable, familiar identities. Even in our utter discomfort, they’re known to us, the explanations they offer bring something like safe and familiar ground.
What if we were to choose differently? I saw that I could, the actively did and, fuckitall, it’s amazing. Frustrating in its own way but amazing.
There is no more space in me for outrage. There nothing more than a depth of love that may sometimes feel a little shallow every now and again but there’s not much room for anything other than that.