On being Angry

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗘𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗰𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗕𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗔𝗻𝗴𝗿𝘆

“𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘯𝘯𝘦 𝘞.

𝘐 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘎𝘉𝘛+ 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵-𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘍𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘧.

𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘛𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘫𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦; 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 (𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺) 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭, 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘯 ‘𝘤𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥’ 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺.

𝘚𝘰 𝘸𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥, 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵, 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰. 𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭. 𝘈 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵.

𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 (𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭) 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯.”

(My original Facebook post 11/7/26)

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes with being told how to feel. In the days after Anne Widdcombe’s murder, the performative grief descended with an almost rehearsed uniformity. And I sat with that exhaustion for a long time before I could write a word of this. Because the exhaustion itself is part of the story, and it has a history.

I am not defending the murder. I want to be clear about that from the start, because I know the script by now. Any attempt to articulate the psychology of suffering is read as a justification of violence, and that reading is itself a silencing technique. So let me say plainly: the taking of a life is not something I will justify. What I will do (what I believe philosophy obliges me to do) is try to understand the moral and psychological terrain that makes certain silences, certain refusals, certain difficult feelings, not only intelligible but earned.

Anne Widdcombe spent decades wielding her powerful political platform, her intellect, and her faith as instruments of exclusion. She did so with consistency, with rhetorical skill, and with an almost theological certainty that some lives were simply less worthy of protection. I remember her in the years after Section 28, when I was still working out who I was, when the air in this country felt thick with the message that people like me were aberrations. She was not alone in that, but she was loud, and she was articulate, and she gave permission to others to voice what had previously been whispered. The respectability she later dispensed with (via her Farage alliance) was a mask she had worn over something harder and colder. Many of us saw through it long before she took it off.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝘀𝘆𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗕𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗟𝗲𝘀𝘀

Frantz Fanon wrote, in 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘌𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩, that the colonised do not only resist the coloniser externally, they carry the coloniser 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲. The oppressed absorb the frameworks of their oppression. They begin to measure themselves against standards set by those who despise them. This is not weakness; it is psychology. It is the mind’s attempt to make sense of an unlivable situation. When every institution, every newspaper, every 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗼𝗻, every political speech tells you that you are an error (a confusion, a perversion, a threat) the cognitive dissonance is unbearable, and the only way to survive it is to either fight or to fold. Many of us folded for years. Many of us are still folding.

Simone de Beauvoir wrote that 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯.What she meant is that gender is 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘂𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. It is made, imposed, iterated across a lifetime until it feels like nature. The same is true of the hatred directed at transgender people. It is not a fact we inherit; it is a construction we are 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗰𝗲𝗱 to inhabit. Anne Widdcombe did not merely disagree with existence of LGBT+ people. She participated in the construction of my unworthiness as a public fact. And she did so across decades, across governments, across a cultural landscape that shifted beneath her yet never shook her conviction that she knew what we were. Often co-established by her adopted Catholic faith.

This is what I mean when I say I am not surprised. I do not mean that I wanted this. I mean that the soil in which such violence eventually blooms is not mysterious. It is cultivated, year after year, by people who never have to answer for what they sowed.

𝗢𝗻 𝗔𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗜𝘁𝘀 𝗘𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗰𝘀

Aristotle understood something essential about anger: that it is not a failure of reason but a 'form' of it. 𝘛𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯, 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦, 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺 — 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺. He placed anger within the catalogue of emotions that constitute 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿. Anger, in Aristotle’s view, is a response to the perception of serious injury. It asserts that something matters, that some boundary has been crossed. When the boundary is one’s basic humanity, one’s right to exist without state-sanctioned contempt, the anger is not pathological. It is appropriate.

I remember Aristotle’s words, not because I always achieve the right degree and the right way, but because they remind me that the attempt to be serene in the face of one’s own dehumanisation is not a moral requirement. It is a luxury. It is the luxury of those who have never had their personhood stripped away piece by piece and then been told to be grateful for the process.

De Beauvoir, in 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘦𝘹, writes of women’s anger as something that has historically been pathologised precisely because it threatens power structures that prefer women’s acquiescence. The woman who is angry is hysterical, difficult, and not to be trusted. The transgender person who is angry is likewise coded — as 𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲, as demanding, as having an agenda. Anne Widdcombe understood this coding and deployed it deliberately. She spoke of us as though our anger at her was itself the evidence of our moral failure. And the public, by and large, agreed.

So when I say I feel a queasy reluctance to grieve, I am not performing shock. I am trying to be honest about what I feel. And honesty, in a world that rewards the polished lie, is its own form of resistance.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗜𝗺𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗗𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗙𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀

Martha Nussbaum, in her work on anger and forgiveness, makes a crucial distinction. Anger, she argues, assumes a kind of reciprocity. It wants the wrongdoer to suffer in proportion to the harm inflicted. This, she suggests, is why many moral philosophers from the Stoics onwards have urged us to abandon anger: because its transactional quality keeps us locked in the injury rather than liberated from it. But Nussbaum also acknowledges what she calls the 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 that remains even after forgiveness. It is the recognition that something was taken that cannot be given back. This is not anger in the petty sense. 𝗜𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗳 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗱, 𝗼𝗿 𝗱𝗶𝗴𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘀 𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗮𝗻.

What strikes me about the calls for forgiveness that followed this murder is how they assume forgiveness is owed. It is not. Forgiveness is not a debt. It cannot be levied or collected. It is a gift, and gifts require the freedom to be declined. I have not decided whether I will ever feel forgiveness for Anne Widdecombe, and I do not believe the decision is yours to make, or the public’s, or any institution’s. The demand for my forgiveness is another small act of control: one more insistence that I manage my pain in ways that are comfortable for others.

𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗜𝗻𝗷𝘂𝗿𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗽𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗘𝗺𝗽𝗮𝘁𝗵

Psychologists who study moral injury describe a particular kind of damage that occurs when one is forced to participate in, or is systematically subjected to, injustice. It is distinct from PTSD, though it overlaps with it. 𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝗻𝗷𝘂𝗿𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗼𝗱𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗽𝗮𝗰𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗲𝗺𝗽𝗮𝘁𝗵𝘆 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗯𝘆 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗰𝗿𝘂𝗲𝗹 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗯𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆. If you have spent a seeming lifetime being the object of Anne Widdcombe’s moral scorn (her conviction that your life was a matter of theological concern, political platforming, and public debate), then the well of compassion from which you might draw in response to her death may simply have run dry. That is not a moral failure. It is the predictable consequence of decades long moral harm.

James Baldwin wrote, in a different context but with great relevance, 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦. 𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦. The sentence is an indictment of the maker, not the made. It names the violence of the imputation. The way that being labelled 𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 than human creates the conditions in which it becomes difficult to hold one’s own humanity intact. Baldwin also understood that 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳. Those who have always been granted tact, those whose feelings have always been treated as worthy of consideration, are always 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 powerful. To refuse tact, to speak plainly about the anger one feels, is to refuse the terms of that power. Satire is one of the instruments of that refusal. Laughter, even uncomfortable laughter, even laughter that others find distasteful, is an assertion that we have not been completely subdued.

𝗥𝗶𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹, 𝗦𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗔𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗲

I wrote satire in the day after her death. I did not write it because I am cruel. I wrote it because the alternative was to drown in the acid of personal fear, and I am not ready to drown. Satire has always been a survival tool for the margins, for the communities who could not win in open debate because the rules were written by our opponents, who could not access the platforms where their lies were given credibility. We laughed because the laughter kept us upright. The laughter said, ‘𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘂𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘃𝗲 𝘄𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗼 𝘁𝗼 𝘂𝘀’.

The ritualised grief I was being asked to perform (the solemn condemnation, the dignified silence, and the acceptance of the dominant narrative about who Anne Widdcombe was and what she represented) required me to erase my own history. It required me to forget the years of watching her work erode the scaffolding of my selfhood. I tried, in my own way, to be decent about it. I tried to hold both things at once: the recognition that a person had died and the recognition that the world was not unambiguously worse for her going. Both things can be true. 𝗕𝗼𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗲. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗜 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝘁𝗵.

Rumi wrote that 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶. I have always been cautious with this one. Wounds can also be the place where the dark settles and makes its home, and that is honest too. But I think what Rumi is pointing at, however imperfectly, is that the damage we carry is not only loss. Sometimes it is the site of our clearest sight. T𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗲 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝘁, 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗹 𝗮𝘃𝗮𝗶𝗹𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲, 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘄𝗮𝘆.

I do not know what I really feel about Anne Widdcombe’s death. Maybe nothing. I know what I feel about what she did while alive. I know that being asked to be serene about my own oppression is itself a form of it. And I know that I will keep writing, keep thinking, keep feeling all of this without resolution, because that is what it means to be a person who has been through something and come out the other side still here, still refusing to disappear.

That refusal, in the end, is its own answer.