i was already powerful
or: giving myself permission to feel the fire
I resisted my (metaphorical) pull to fire for a long, long time. Fire is powerful and strong and ferocious and beautiful and captivating. And I would not let myself believe I had anything in common with it. As we’ve discussed, I am someone who adores looking for themself within fictional worlds and characters. I always thought it would be inaccurate, egotistical, and unbecoming if I admitted to thinking I had things in common with fire-associated characters. It was easy, as a Gemini Sun and an ocean admirer, to align myself with air and water instead. Squirtle was always my starter Pokemon, because why would I ever think myself good or strong enough to take care of Charmander?
(That sounds rude to Squirtle, and I don’t mean it that way. I love you forever, Squirtle buddy.)
My fingertips are fizzy and crackly with fury. A lifetime of repressed anger boils hot and howling in the pit of my stomach, and I want to open my beak wide and unleash a torrent of flame upon the universe. My throat hurts from holding it back and holding it in. I admitted to my therapist recently that sometimes I feel angry with Everyone, because I think no one has ever really Seen Me.
Now, to be fair to Everyone: I don’t think that’s true. I think certain key figures have misunderstood me in a very profound way, and my pain over it has clouded my ability to recognize love when it comes openly and without judgment.
“You’re too sensitive.” “We were all having fun, and you ruined it.” “‘Sorry’ isn’t good enough.” Inconsiderate, ungrateful, thoughtless, useless; sometimes written on my bedroom door probably meant to be a joke. Standing outside the same door and making fun of my voice when I was singing along to my CD collection. I started stuffing a blanket under my door, I became quieter.
be quiet, calm down, get over it, be less.
She was 7, 12, 16, etc.
“You’re a burden.”
They were 22. They were curling in on themself, they were eating their own tail.
What was there to be angry about, though? Wasn’t it all my fault? Hadn’t I ruined it? Didn’t I always ruin it?
I believed it. It was my guiding principle, it was my faith. I tiptoed through the world unless I was given explicit permission to be boisterous, because I knew my destiny was to Ruin, to Destroy, to Make Worse. Every choice I made was in atonement. I was so terrible, and I needed to make up for it.
(Fuck you for handing that to me. It has been a stone in my pocket my entire life, I am setting it down. I am going to melt it with my heat vision.)
I am 35 today and I have been in so much therapy. I have called trauma what it is, I have acknowledged the grooming and abuse. I have shared stories with a professional whom I trust with all my heart, and I have seen the sadness and anger in his own expression. I didn’t make any of it up. I was never too sensitive. I didn’t ruin anything. I was a kid, and no one saw me the way I deserved to be seen.
And I– 35-year-old Daniel who lifts heavy weights and works hard in therapy and is taking control of his own narrative– am fucking furious. And I won’t deny it: Sometimes I long for retribution. I crave vengeance. I long to flex my feathers and burn down a building in front of you to prove to you to never mess with me ever again.
But mostly the fire in my heart is a bonfire. Alongside the violence, there is warmth. I am thinking of all the past versions of myself, and I cannot save them, I cannot take it away. In my fantasy, though, I can keep them warm. I can make them s’mores and listen to their stories and never tell them they’re too loud or their voices sound wrong. I would say, “You are already so powerful, and there will be those who are afraid of you and will try to diminish you on purpose. I’m sorry for how it hurts, I’m sorry for the apologies you will not receive. Here’s another marshmallow.”
I am my own favorite, I am my own best love. I will cherish the little girl who is too afraid to sing out loud, I will comfort the despondent college graduate who thinks the quality of their love is poisonous, and I will champion the trans man who knows who he is and is taking the steps to make himself happy and free.
I was already powerful.
(i was, i am, i shall be.)