2

There was a blackout, meaning something had happened, meaning there was most likely casualties. I snuck away from my duty station, anxious, wondering if K___ was out there somewhere, bleeding, or worse.
I went to our room and sat under a lamp to try and read, since the main lights were off. I wanted to look casual. K___ stepped in, but only for a moment. I squinted in the semi dark, to make sure it was him.
He noticed, said, _Hey._
I replied, _Hey._
He left, I left.

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Once, while we were still state-side, and in the back of a van about to take us back to Camp S___, K___ kept asking why I wouldn’t entertain the idea of going into writing when I go to college.
He wouldn’t let up. I told him, _I’m nothing like them. They are on that track because they want to be writers. I write because I have to._

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I thought my allowing the inexplicable anger, despite its seeming destructiveness, had something to do with my acknowledging my inherent power. I thought it would improve my life -- by unnumbing me -- not destroy it.
The thing people hate most about me is my power. It was what the House focused on most; but also the outside people back then: annoyed, even exasperated that I wouldn’t just act normal. Despite the fact that everything back then was wrong, even at times horrific, and that my stubborn refusal of normalcy may be what saved me -- I still feel their ugliness and bile, somewhere, deep down.
I think about that episode of 60 Minutes. It was the catalyst of The Summer I was Nineteen -- a summer where I was suddenly not numb, I lost the weight, I self improved, and felt so hopeful for my future I joined the military. The episode was about the victims of the Catholic Priests.
There was one, a guy my age, who had everything I felt was wasted on me -- good looks, intelligence, genuineness. He had a sadness about him, even a lost look in his eye, as Ed Bradley interviewed him. He worked at a horse ranch, alone. At the end of the interview Ed Bradley wants to know what he’ll do with his future. He goes back to the horses, solitary, silent but for the sounds the horses make.
Sometimes I relate more to Dexter’s sister than to Dexter. She is impossibly fragile, and therefore aggressive. Here and there she unwittingly destroys what means most to her, while still moving carefully, determinedly forward, despite her wounds.
That’s why I don’t feel my anger, my power, because something about the way the boy feels it seems self-destructive.
It is when I fight that I most easily become aware of my power. Hence, seems like I’m always fighting.
The worst part is that Mom would tell people, _ Oh, his only problem is he bottles everything up inside._ Despite the Abuse she would reign down on me, she could be infuriatingly correct.
It is true that I can bottle up anger due to an assumption of inequality But I also remember how I didn’t want to be like them -- R__, Mom, A___ or H___ -- I didn’t want to grow up to be an aggressive, bullying weakling. I wanted it to the point where that was all I wanted. I learned to simply take the Abuse, without any hateful retaliating, while promising to myself that one day I would leave that place forever.
Maybe it‘s not all bad. At least I have anger, at least it’s not all hurt, like the guy on 60 Minutes.
The only way to resolve it is to feel the power, in every moment. I remember what it feels like from June 1^st:
I remember how surprised I was, _So this is what Anger is,_ I thought to myself, _It’s not destructive at all. It’s totally different from Abuse. It‘s a Seriousness, like every thing matters, every moment, every movement._
It’s hard to describe but it really amounts to, being genuinely present in the moment, with nothing left out, or unengaged -- including the power.
When I remember to allow it, I can feel the blood in my veins, at times relaxingly, at times pumping with adrenaline. I can feel my feet on the ground, I can feel every muscle in my body, I can feel my lungs breathing.
It feels difficult, because that kind of presence disallows any insecurity or anxiety. I feel exposed with out it. That anxiety was what kept the boy alive in the House. My always watchful eye, externally, and internally.
I feel the power’s requirements -- Him’s requirements -- as I try to hold on to it -- no matter what. It requires I always feel comfortable enough to be in the moment -- that I have no fear -- that I am comfortable enough to accept the moment as is.
The first focal point of my low self esteem is always my looks. Feeling good looking (enough) to be Real seems intrinsically tied to my switch from powerless to present.
My power isn’t like electrical power. I can’t turn it on and off. No matter that I needed to.
I knew how to switch from Him to numb and back again, or thought I did. Really I just tricked others’ minds by tricking my own. I knew how to take something sacred -- Him -- and throw dirt on it.
I turned my power off whenever I got the chance, almost like I preferred it, like I created situations that would allow it. Why, I think, Was it because it was easier? Safer? Can’t be, my life has been difficult and unbearable without it.
I was disciplined making sure to never be caught exuding Him. Disciplined to the point I made my power so secret it even became hidden from myself.
I learned how to turn off my power -- an unnatural act -- because that’s what they wanted to F-ck.

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