I have seen rage—pure, unrestrained rage. I’ve seen it in men I have loved. I've seen it in my own son, Dustin. I've watched them lose themselves in it, breaking mirrors with their fists, punching walls until the walls gave way. Dustin didn’t stop at holes in the wall. He brought entire walls down and even took out the fridge in his fury. I have stood in the middle of it, terrified for my life, my heart pounding, wondering if I would survive those moments.
But now I understand that rage on a level I never thought I would. Since Dylan died, I have felt it rising within me in ways that frighten me. There are days I want to destroy everything in my path. I want to take every object off the shelves and throw it across the room, to feel my fists crash through the walls. I want to scream—scream until there is nothing left in me. But it hurts to scream. The pain coils in my chest and silences me before I can even begin.
And yet, I’ve haven't acted on it. I’ve haven't put a hole in the wall. I hold it in. But why? Why do we have to hold it all inside? If I’m alone, why can’t I let it out? Why can’t I rage freely in a way that is mine alone? I could pay to repair the damage later. Maybe it isn’t economical, maybe it isn’t rational, but would it bring a kind of peace that nothing else can? To sit on the floor, surrounded by shards of broken glass and crumbled walls, and know that I caused this—there’s something in that vision that almost feels like calm. A flood of peace washing over the chaos I created. Until society's judgment sets in, and I imagine the shame at the destruction I caused. The shame at not holding it together.
I know I am hurting. I know the music I hear sometimes triggers the rage. Certain songs stir those memories, and with them comes that all-consuming feeling. The desire to confront the man who killed Dylan is overwhelming. I want to see him—him or even his mother. I want to stand face-to-face and say all the things I never got to say. But what would I do if I did? Would I scream? Cry? Would I feel any better, or would I unravel completely?
It’s ironic, really. Violence makes me physically ill. I can’t bear to see it. It rips me apart. I scream, I cry, I shake—yet that rage, that capacity for destruction, still lives inside me. I’m not angry at this moment, but I can feel how easy it would be to tip over the edge, to let it consume me. It’s always there, like a shadow just waiting for the right word, the right trigger, to bring it to life.
I have lived with so much—grief, trauma, loss—and this rage feels like an extension of all of it. I carry so much pain. Dylan was my light, my sunshine. Without him, I feel like I’ve lost half of myself. People expect me to live differently, to move on, but they don’t understand that I am still finding my way through this endless fog. I’ve learned to cope with Dylan’s death in my own way, but that doesn’t mean the rage and grief have disappeared.
I’ve faced enough silence in my life to know how much it can hurt. My family often retreats into silence, thinking it’s the best way to deal with my pain. But it only pushes me further into isolation. I wonder sometimes if they even realize how much it feels like abandonment. I’ve wanted to scream at them to push past my anger, to stay with me through it. To express how the silence mocks me.
I long for peace, for the kind of solitude that feels sacred and healing. I see glimpses of it in nature, in art, in writing. I know I am not alone, even when I feel that way. I have Dylan’s memory guiding me, the lessons of grief teaching me how to be resilient. But I also know that grief and rage are intertwined. Some days, I just want to tear the world apart so I can feel alive again. So I can feel something beyond the numbness.
But I keep holding it in. Maybe one day I’ll stop holding back. Maybe I’ll finally release it through my writing, through my crafts, through exercise. Until then, I’ll keep walking this path, learning how to carry both the light and the darkness.
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