It’s a filthy place, the inside of his mind, but I’ve forced myself to wade through the sewage of his thoughts.

He followed me for a block, waiting until we were somewhere with less traffic.

I am cerebral person, I have to think about things, rationalize them, untangle them, for a long time after they happen. Even if it’s torture. Even if it’s pointless.

If you met me now, you probably wouldn’t think I was the sort of girl who allowed boys to walk over her and treat her like shit. You might not even think I was the sort of girl who liked boys. With cropped hair and flannel shirts, I’ve done all I can to deter men from taking an interest. But a few years ago, when my hair was long and curly and my self-esteem was pretty much at rock bottom, I let a series of men trample over my self-worth.

I am not allowed to be angry. I don’t mean I’m not allowed to yell or break things or act out, though that is strictly forbidden as well. I mean I am not allowed to feel the emotion itself. It has no place in my being, no space it can comfortably take up. Instead, it squeezes into other homes, transforms into anxiety or rejection or, a personal favorite, self-loathing.

Rage enveloped me in my mother’s womb. It bathed me in amniotic fluid that permeated my cells, and developed who I was about to become. The origin of this rage could have evolved from my mother’s life events. My mother from Japan, who immigrated to America a decade after WWII ended. Whose legs carried her as she and her family ran from their house after it was bombed and burned to the ground, barely making it out alive.