She Brought the Crowbar, And I Understood Why
Some scenes you watch. Others watch you back. This scene held my attention and held up a mirror. Let me set the scene. The husband took the wife to dinner to tell her that he was leaving her because he didn’t want her to cause a ruckus. Well of course it didn’t work, she definitely caused a ruckus. So then in his infinite wisdom, he puts her in a taxi while she is bereft. She calls him from the taxi crying, begging for answers. And he tells her that he went back to work. Her world is unraveling and he is doing his level best to avoid the destruction of their family with routine. At that moment, you could see the rage rise inside her. I felt the exact moment when she switched from sorrow to rage. She catches the taxi driver before he pulls off, and with a crowbar in hand, she rides to his job. She finds his X5 and destroyed his car. Not a window remained untouched. Glass littered the ground like glitter from a war zone. Her guttural screams rose up from the weight of what she had been carrying for far too long, piercing the night. Each strike to that car resonated in my soul. I imagine that it was a release from the silence she had endured, the dismissal she had felt, and the restraint she had practiced in rooms that offered her no grace. And I knew that visceral emotion well. That moment was never about the car, it was about reclaiming the parts of herself that had been ignored, dismissed, and suppressed. And let’s be honest, sometimes the repression is our choice because we believe that it is what we need to do to get a sliver of what we want. I understood her in the core of my soul. Because I know from experience that rage like that doesn’t just show up one day No.It accumulates. It builds in the workplace where your concerns are minimized. It builds in the relationship where your boundaries are treated like suggestions. It builds in the family dynamics where you’re expected to absorb the dysfunction in silence. It builds every time you smile through someone playing in your face. It comes from the address of too much for too long with no room to release. I have been there – on the brink of composure and release. There is a split second, just a breath, that stands between letting it take over or choosing something else. When I have stood in that breath, most of the time, I’ve chosen restraint. I’ve walked away from the edge, even when every nerve in my body begged for release. I’ve swallowed the scream; tucked the rage into my pocket; kept it moving like nothing ever happened clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth behind a practiced smile. But I know the other side too. I know what it feels like to let go of all reason and allow the rage to rise through my mouth, my hands, my feet. I know what it’s like to wage war on everything in my path destroying anything in my path like lava wending its way down a mountain. I have been that woman because sometimes as that final straw breaks the camel’s back it unleashes something primal in the soul that can no longer be contained. Thank God for a good therapist. I have learned not to let composure rob me of release. I have learned to choose myself differently instead of launching wooden hangers like missiles at the human provoking my spirit. I still tuck sometimes, nobody is perfect, but I also release. I hit a punching bag. I blast that one Big Sean song screaming along to his lyrics until my throat aches. I call my hate and rage partner and let it out. I call my therapist and get vulnerable. In those moments, I don’t want anything soft or gentle. I don’t want to be lady like and I don’t want to be composed. I want to expend the rage that simmers just beneath the surface of every marginalized woman navigating a world not designed for her survival, much less her joy. In those moments, what I need is a reminder that I matter – fully, loudly, unapologetically. Because here’s the truth, rage is not a failure of self-control. It is a compass pointing to what has been breached, overlooked, or violated. And while I may not always get to choose the trigger, I do get to choose the aftermath. These days, I choose to release without unraveling. I choose to feel without burning it all down. I honor my anger as a sacred signal, instead of trying to treating it like a shameful flaw. I choose to let it lead me to the version of me that does not shrink, does not beg, and does not break for anyone’s comfort. I choose to release in ways that honor my humanity, and not just my performance. In choosing to release without destroying, I am reminding myself that I matter, that I always have, and that I don’t need to bottle everything up to prove my worth. I have learned not to shrink to keep the peace. I choose me and my well-being on a regular basis because I understand that rage is really my unmet needs refusing to be silenced anymore. I choose to meet my needs routinely. So when that split second arrives, I am able to express what needs to be expressed, while remaining composed…most of the time 😉. And if you’re anything like me, here’s what I want you to know – in the space between composure and rage, there is a third way.You don’t have to bottle it up. But you don’t have to blow it all up either. If you learn to release in ways that honor you, that breath – the one between fury and peace – will become a place
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