I hope that someday, all the Slutwalks and Take Back the Nights will add up and we will all be able to do what Sylvia Plath dreamed of: “to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west” and, most importantly, “to walk freely at night…”
When did we stop seeing the future president, or the next great American novelist, or the person that will cure cancer when we looked at a classroom? And instead saw the next suicide, the next drug deal, the next Sandy Hook?
When my PCP first sent me to the hospital for abdominal X-rays four years ago, the radiologist wanted to know what kinds of symptoms I’d been experiencing. “I don’t have an appetite,” I told her. “I wish I had that problem,” she responded.
I took to writing stories about vengeance, about stabbing my friends with whatever was near to hand; pencils in the classroom, sporks in the cafeteria, a ruler in the hallway while classes were changing. I walked around with vivid images in my head of tearing those girls' faces off.