It’s just something I realized today, for the first time in my life:
As a child and as an adolescent, I was incapable of feeling rage.
I was capable of feeling hatred and anger–but incapable of feeling rage.
I didn’t become capable of feeling rage until my twenties.
Yet then it was too late.
How well rage would have served me in my childhood–it would have protected me from my dad’s physical abuse, and my mom’s support, even encouragement of it.
How well rage would have served me in my adolescence–it would have protected me from the verbal bullying of white boys and the physical bullying of black boys.
And all day I’ve wished my mind could travel to my thirteen-year-old body in 1979, and possess it–so that my forty-eight-year-old rage could rise in defiance of my abusive parents and my bullying peers.
Yet my mind is still here, of course.
And it is filled with rage–but rage against far more powerful forces than abusive parents or bullying teenagers.
Rage against things over which I have no power at all.
Rage against my mental illness, and my deteriorating life.
But even moreso:
Rage against this, the worst era in human history–rage against digital-age technology, rage against exponentially increasing overpopulation, rage against climate change, and rage against every other evil that is the beginning of the end of the world.
Rage–not too little, but definitely too late.