Female Rage, Is That You?

‘Kali’ taken by Mubarak Sheik

My therapist's eyes narrowed as she took a large glug of her chamomile tea. Meanwhile I sat opposite her drinking a cappuccino from Greggs with one brown sugar and chocolate on top, my thigh bouncing off the chair as my restless leg spun out of control; what was a smoothing motion to me was surely some sort of psychological tell to her. Or maybe she was just thinking, “my God, bitch, lay off the caffeine!”

My therapist is an amazing woman. Of Muslim descent like me, she lives in a fabulous ground floor flat with a patio opening out into an oasis of a garden. Four cats come to greet me as I enter - two black, two white, two pairs of brothers, some sort of representation of our society can be found in it if I think about it too much. They are luxury cats, not like my short haired kitty at home who I bought for 20 quid from my classmate when I was in college - these are premium, silky, spoilt cats who curl up together in bed and give me evil looks which probably translate into “what is this tracksuit wearing, Greggs carrying peasant doing in our home?” 

“Fucking up the decor, bro,” the other one (probably) replies. 

I spot a packet of cigarettes on her table and wonder if she smokes, or if she chips off the tobacco sticks to smoke weed. I think the latter. Whenever I speak to my therapist about anything sex related, she says “everyone is different when it comes to sex and desires, and that’s okay. I could be a dominatrix, you know!” which I am sure is something only a dominatrix would say. So as she sits there advising me that as long as there is explicit consent there is no “normal” when it comes to sex, I imagine her in a black latex dress, walking over a naked mans back in stilettos as her cats watch on in judgement but ultimately respect for their breadwinner.  

Anyway, back to her eyes narrowing. “I’m picking up ALOT of irritation in the room today, Maryam. How are you feeling?”

She was right, I’d been irritated all week. Okay, I’m lying - I’ve been irritated since like, 1999. 

How are people not irritated, all the time? 

I wake up to see a new spot on my face - irritated. I look at the floor I hoovered just 48 hours ago that looks like it needs to be hoovered again - irritating. Someone says something that makes me realise their IQ is lower than I’d previously estimated - irritated. But sometimes the irritation has no obvious cause; it’s just a parasite underneath my skin, poking me with a stick until the irritation raises my blood pressure and my breathing is slightly more shallow and I can’t put a finger on it, per se - I feel as prickly as a cactus for no reason - like the cactus, I just am. Irritated, that is. 

2020 was obviously the year for resolving internal conflict - I don’t need to go into how being trapped indoors (#lockdown) forces you to reflect on what kind of human being you are and how you can better yourself, and what does life mean anyway? What is it for? How does it zoom by so quickly and how can I make it a thing that means something once I’m gone?

As lockdown restrictions got tighter, I was unable to see my therapist irl - so I turned to Instagram.

Sara was a PT but in lockdown, she’d started doing live readings on her Instagram (yes, this is how healing can be found in the 21st century). Sara is fucking great, to be fair - even though I don’t believe in readings, really - I don’t believe the cards are down to divine selection, but I believe in the power of empathy, very good intuition and the skill of interpreting things in a positive way - after all, life is full of signs if you’re looking for them - and that is what Sara has down to a T. 

I clicked the Zoom link when it was time for my one on one reading I’d booked with her. 

“Are you irritated? Because as I’ve been preparing for your reading I’ve found myself really irritated over the past hour.”

Fucking hell. People just have to think of me and they’ll pick up my irritated vibes? I am fucked. 

We spoke for an hour and towards the end we decided to do a ritual to free me of the elements that had been, well, annoying me (I’ll save that for another letter) and she asked me to close my eyes. I closed my eyes, sitting in front of a screen, and inside my head, I was smirking. In fact, I felt like I was on the edge of bursting into hysterical laughter as she guided me through the process. I tied a string around my wrists (very hard to do when you are alone, might I say) and I set my intentions - my left hand holding onto old pain and my right hand holding the promise of a brighter future - and then I cut the string and burnt it, a symbol of letting old pain go and breathing fire into my hopes of a more positive future.  

Okay, fine, I felt lighter after that. Maybe it is something to do with the intensity of the ritual, maybe there is something inherently cathartic for humans when it comes to setting things alight. 

A few days later I decided to have a clear out and I found a painting I’d bought when I’d been on holiday with an ex who had, rather unceremoniously and painfully, broken up with me. I decided to take a leaf out of Sara’s book, so I headed into the garden and set the painting alight. My cat immediately came over, curious as well, a cat - and started sniffing it, then attempted to paw at it. “Back off, baby,” I said, picking her up and pressing my face into her black and white fur as I watched the pastel colours set fire and turn black, smoke spiraling into a grey January sky. When the last of it burned - ashes to ashes, dust to dust - I waited for the catharsis to kick in, but nothing did. Turns out, you can’t just set things alight as a method of purging internal rage.

Maybe general irritability was built from a lifetime of feeling like I have to suppress anger because it’s seen as a masculine emotion - ugly when expressed by a woman - lower your voice, be coy, be satisfied with the scraps you’re given. The concept of very warranted female rage has been discussed since the dawn of man - from tales of the Goddess Kali right up until the #metoo movement - and yet, the world is still so far away from truly being a place where women can thrive. 

One of my favourite male poets posted a picture of a desolate London on their Instagram page recently. “Each evening at around 11pm I go for my daily walk around Shoreditch. These were the scenes from Friday night.” 

I get the post was meant to be poignant - “look at London on a Friday night under lockdown - nobody is getting pissed at Boxpark!” - but my first thought was how nice it must be, being able to go for a DAILY WALK AT ELEVEN FUCKING PM. How nice it must be, to not worry that it’s too dark to go out. How nice it must be, to not carry keys clenched in your fist ready to thump someone in the temple with them if they tried to attack you. How nice it would be, to not have to think of escape plans should a predator follow you home one night. How nice it must be, to take a walk at 11pm without feeling like the safety of a companion is needed. 

And just like that, I’m irritated. Now I wonder - is that irritation, or female rage? 

I’ll let you know next time - I’m off to book a Zoom session with my therapist to find out. 

Some reads on female rage that I enjoyed, if you want further reading: 

How women and minorities are claiming their right to rage.

After centuries of censure, women reconsider the political power of female rage.

Kali and Feminine Rage.