Empty shell
So I have left and I guess this is my life for now: Wake up, dress in one of three available outfits, and wonder what to do with my day. Being free does not feel like finally flying aloft above silvery clouds as my troubles drop away. Being free feels like being kicked out of the nest, even though the nest was lined with barbed wire and electric shocks. It will take some time to find my way. I understand that.
When I think of things that were done to me, that he did to me, I become so angry – no, not angry exactly. I get so puzzled. How could that have happened? I remember a story my grandpa told about when he was a little boy and he was on the other side of town buying milk when the Turkish troops began attacking his village. He was so scared of the gunfire and shouts that he ran all the way home. When he got there his mother said, "Oh, your feet!" and he realized for the first time that he had run over the broken windows of stores and houses and cut his bare feet to shreds, but he was so scared he had not felt a thing. When he told this story, he did not tell it with angry fire in his eyes, he did not tell it so we would hate the Turks. He didn't say anything about anger, just fear, and puzzlement: at the end of the story he always shook his head and said, "I just don't know why they did that. I don't know why they did that."
Not that I lived through a genocide or anything, but I know what he means. I don't have anger in me, not yet at least. All I have is this feeling of pity and being perplexed. Why on earth would anyone do that? Why would you grab someone by the hair and pull her up a flight of stairs? Why would you slap someone across the face or slam her head against a wall? Why would you scream at her after she's already dissolved into tears? Why would you destroy things you wanted to keep? What a stupid way to behave. I don't want to figure it out, I just regard it as a lump of curiosity. Hurm.
When I think of things that were done to me, that he did to me, I become so angry – no, not angry exactly. I get so puzzled. How could that have happened? I remember a story my grandpa told about when he was a little boy and he was on the other side of town buying milk when the Turkish troops began attacking his village. He was so scared of the gunfire and shouts that he ran all the way home. When he got there his mother said, "Oh, your feet!" and he realized for the first time that he had run over the broken windows of stores and houses and cut his bare feet to shreds, but he was so scared he had not felt a thing. When he told this story, he did not tell it with angry fire in his eyes, he did not tell it so we would hate the Turks. He didn't say anything about anger, just fear, and puzzlement: at the end of the story he always shook his head and said, "I just don't know why they did that. I don't know why they did that."
Not that I lived through a genocide or anything, but I know what he means. I don't have anger in me, not yet at least. All I have is this feeling of pity and being perplexed. Why on earth would anyone do that? Why would you grab someone by the hair and pull her up a flight of stairs? Why would you slap someone across the face or slam her head against a wall? Why would you scream at her after she's already dissolved into tears? Why would you destroy things you wanted to keep? What a stupid way to behave. I don't want to figure it out, I just regard it as a lump of curiosity. Hurm.
posted by OutOfAbuse at 10:37 AM
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