My rage is supposed to be small. Manageable. Pretty. I am supposed to fold it down, make it something to consume—like an origami crane or a perfectly hand-dipped candle. I am a disabled woman. I have learned to suppress, to fold, to disappear. When I fold down my rage, I fold down myself. I make myself smaller, prettier, easier to consume. But I am not easy to consume. I am a deafblind woman. And I am angry at the world.
