The Rage of Men
Has followed me my entire life. And now it’s what we’re controlled by.
Back in December I was almost run off the road while driving home from work. A man in a burnt orange truck cut me off so that he could get into the turn lane to a fast food place. I made the “by all means” spreading hands gesture and he took offense to that. So, he then intentionally swerved towards me when I was forced to slow down because of his insane maneuvering. I swerved away from him and ended up in other lanes of traffic causing everyone around me to slam on their brakes while my vehicle weeble wobbled trying to right itself. I have never had that happen to me before. Sure, I’ve been cut off, but I’ve never had someone intentionally try to cause an accident.
I sat in shock for a moment and then hit the gas so that I could get to my home that was less than a minute away. When I got home I broke down while telling my husband what happened- he took off after him, found him, confrontation ensued, police were called, and eventually the psycho apologized after my husband kept pushing to press charges. We have all the video evidence from our dashcam. Not sure if the guy learned his lesson.
I was sure taught one by his rage.
Male rage is nothing new in my life. I have been exposed to it since I was a baby. Having been born to a drug addicted alcoholic father with a penchant for physical and psychological abuse. His rage was like a light switch being flipped - on in a split second for any reason he wanted.
My first memory is this:
I’d just woken up from a nap and was toddling around the living room while my parents were divvying up pills with V’s on them (Valium). My mom took one extra pill and next thing I know he’s grabbing her arm and walking her 10 steps into the bedroom. A family friend was over and picked me up on his shoulders, we walked into the cramped hallway and I tapped my dad on the shoulder to get his attention. I glimpsed my mom sitting on the ground, back against the wood paneled wall. My dad whipped around at us, shoved his friend, and slammed the bedroom door. Before the door closed I saw the beige metal rotary phone in his hand. He used it to beat my mom with - broken nose, jaw, and glasses before the police arrived.
She eventually escaped him years later, only to find herself with another abuser.
She was never free.
The first time a boy threatened me I was in third grade. His name was Jimmy Carroll. He had red hair and a ton of freckles, he was taller than everyone except the teachers and skinny as a bean pole. He never smiled. He had small beady eyes. And he was always dirty. I’d landed on his radar and he decided to stalk me. Everywhere I went at school he appeared and would come to stand or hover no matter where I was. I wasn’t afraid, I was angry. I didn’t think to tell a teacher.
One day as I was walking home from school, he and his friend decided to follow me. They picked up sticks and twirled them into my long hair, taunting me when they’d pull on the stick and my head would jerk back. I kept yelling at them to leave me alone as I hurried to my home. They started to say things to me- saying the things they wanted to do to me, they wanted to rape me. I was 9 years old. They were 9 years old.
(I’ve always wondered how they knew what rape was?)
I screamed then, I screamed as loudly as I could and began crying and screaming “STOP THIS” over and over. Someone was outside and heard me and they told them to leave me alone. I ran as fast as I could the rest of the way home. I never told anyone what happened, somehow I felt like it was my fault. The following day at school I was eating lunch in the field with my friends and Jimmy appeared again. He came right up to me. I gathered up my lunch, snapped shut my Pink Panther lunchbox, turned around to face him and kicked him in the shins. He dropped down slightly and I hit his arm with my Pink Panther lunchbox.
I didn’t scream or yell- I looked him straight in the eyes and told him to leave me the hell alone and kicked him in the shin one more time. After that he did.
I could keep regaling you with tales of abusive bosses, boyfriends, strangers, friends, colleagues, etc. But then this post would be book length and I don’t have time to write it all yet.
I chose to end the tales with the one where I was able to stand up and beat back the rage filled bully. In every other instance, I fled instead of fought. I ran away to save myself.
Sometimes running is necessary in order to survive.
And sometimes survival looks like fighting back.
What’s been unleashed on us with the ushering in of a fascist dictator, who is by all accounts an idiotic imbecile Mango Mussolini, is also just another man full of rage and taking it out on everyone who isn’t a white straight male. Let’s not forget the techbro cult he’s surrounded himself with, they are also rage bearers who seek to dismantle everything that doesn’t serve them. Tales as old as time.
As I type this, many systems that were put into place as safeguards are being tested and shoved aside. Project 2025 is being implemented in record time. An actual concentration camp is being formed in Gitmo. When we all screamed that he is the most dangerous person to the US ever, and so many told us we were crazy or over reacting - I say a very hearty fuck off, we told you so.
We are living under the rage of men.
Some of us will flee.
Some of us will freeze.
And some of us will fight back.
Dear friends,
I know I just posted yesterday about being an unconditional love giver, and today I’m telling people to fuck off. What can I say, I contain multitudes. I had wanted to keep things like this just to my political Stack, but I felt that this belongs here too. Thanks for being here through all of it. Feel free to share thoughts with me if you’d like ♥️
Xoxo- Mesa
Ps- my husband pointed out that women have rage too, and I told him yes, yes we do. And pointed to myself because I am still enraged at everything we’re having to endure. So yeah, we can say humans in general can be rage filled, but I can only speak about my experiences with rage and most of them have been at the hands of men.
Yes to all of this. I am so sick of these pathetic, insecure men. My self-love & boundaries have come much later in life than I wish they had, but I am standing on that foundation.
Mesa,
I hear you. What you’ve lived through, what you’re witnessing now—none of it should have ever happened. And yet, here we are, under a system that has, especially and much more ingrained, always protected those who wield power through harm, and discarded those who don’t.
The rage isn’t new. The scale, the visibility, the impunity—maybe that’s what’s changed.
You wrote about survival—how sometimes it means running, sometimes freezing, and sometimes fighting back.
And that’s the truth.
There’s no one right way to respond to oppression, no singular path through it. But what I’ve come to believe is this: survival alone isn’t enough. Not for me, at least. Survival is the beginning. What comes after—the reclamation, the refusal to let the system define us—that’s where the real fight is.
I won’t tell you to hope. I won’t tell you it will get better.
But I will say this: as long there are people, who like you are here, speaking, refusing to be silent, there is something beyond survival.
I see it. I see you.
You, I—we are not invisible.
We are not objects to be placed wherever it’s convenient for them.
We will never be.