 I have an ongoing, perverse fascination with rage and violence. The motivation, the dynamics, the deeds. I’ve always been interested in what drives some people toward extreme aggression, but my curiosity has been intensified recently by the media — both real-life events in the news and fiction.
I am fortunate to never have been the victim of physical violence. Not really. Once, a long-term boyfriend 20 years ago grabbed me by the collarbone during a heated argument and left a bruise, but if I am being honest, he was just protecting himself from a rabid girlfriend. We were so broken by that point, neither of us could see straight. Our fights about infidelity and betrayal (on both sides) had escalated to the point of absurdity. Our fear of letting go had not yet overridden the pain of staying in the relationship. Our love had morphed into loathing. That day, in a gas station parking lot, I was belligerent and completely off the chain. I don’t remember what I said, but I’ll never forget the moment I went too far.
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 Billboards are a big deal in my life. And I’m not talking about ones you might pass along the interstate, like: “Honk if You Love Jesus, Text if You Want to Meet Him” or “Hot Naked Girls, Next Exit.”
My billboards are allegorical, but they always come to me as crystal clear signs from the universe. They basically demand I take certain actions, or not take them, as the case may be. For example, I was presented with a mile-high, neon billboard that told me without the slightest flicker of doubt that my marriage was over. I heeded the sign and never looked back. On some occasions (though just as impactful), a billboard appears as simply a quiet reminder that I am on the right path, or that I should be grateful for all my blessings. This week, I saw several of them in Technicolor. First, Mork returned to Orson. I am not normally affected by a celebrity’s death, but in the case of the brilliantly funny Robin Williams, my heart broke. It was a chilling reminder that if such a gentle, sweet soul could find himself in an emotional chasm so deep he couldn’t see a way out, it can happen to anyone.  Like the rest of the country, I have been deeply affected by the horrific events in Newtown, Conn. My heart is so very heavy, yet I am certain I’m shouldering only a tiny portion of what must be the excruciating grief the victims’ families -- and the entire community -- are enduring right now.
Tragedies are agonizing to bear at any time of the year, but these events are especially painful because they occurred so close to Christmas. For the people directly affected, the holidays will forever be associated with horror. And that breaks my heart all over again. I could use this space to explore my feelings about the Sandy Hook shootings, the mental state of the shooter and how Friday’s events came to pass. How could this happen? Could it have been prevented? I don’t have any answers, but like most people, I have a desperate need to make sense of it all. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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