Anger is Contagious

This post is less about a journey through geographic locations and more about one that's been occurring within my psyche. If people are still following this blog, I hope this deviation doesn't bring you too much discomfort. I will be updating with some of my more exciting trips I've had over the past four years of silence but just didn't share here. But for now, I want to talk about violence.

Violence usually happens when someone doesn't feel like they have any control over a situation. Or when they would like to cut persuasion and manipulation out of a social equation and cut straight to their desired outcome. Whether that boils down to their autonomy, resources, ego, or fear, that's what I've come to believe.

When people call a social abuse an act of violence, I actually get very frustrated. It could be a threat of violence, certainly, but to me... No one has ever had to tell me what it was. It was always a part of my life. The fact that the society I'm participating in consumes it with such enthusiasm is actually sickening at times, when my head manages to break the surface.

I spent August 2017 to May 2019 in Las Vegas. I was very much struggling on my own, but within that time-frame I received a diagnosis for PTSD. Regardless of the specific trials I was coping with fresh after my move, I realized that this has been a problem for me for a very long time. It has been affecting my relationships and my ability to form new connections for even longer. And in a way, I felt I had to mourn who I could have been without the trauma I experienced. 

I titled this post "Anger is Contagious," because violence is a vehicle for anger. Unkind words and threats as well. That's how it was transmitted to me. And it's very much something I'd like to conquer, if I can't reach peace with its presence. So I will end this post with a poem from Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur:

you look just like your mother

     i guess i do carry her tenderness well

you both have the same eyes

     cause we are both exhausted

and the hands

     we share the same wilting fingers

but that rage your mother doesn't wear that anger

you're right
this rage is the one thing
i get from my father

Here's to healing.