They raped him. He is incapable of consenting; he's just too mentally ill. I cared for him for over a year and a half, as though the crime itself isn't enough to evoke rage.
The agressors remained unconsequenced. They acted oblivious to their transgression. They showed no remorse, seeming angered and unable to comprehend why anyone would be anything less than happy to see them.
I wanted to throttle them. The last thing I wanted to do was cook and care for them. Each kind thing I did for them, each time they ungratefully accepted the kindness and care as though they were entitled to it, it fanned a flame inside me. A flame on a fuse. And eventually, it happened. I blew up. I screamed. I cried. I threw things.
In all the years I've worked with delinquent youth, I've never lost composure in front of clients quite like that before. I battled with myself mentally, "This was so unprofessional! But did I really say anything I regret? Was it really wrong? Should I feel bad?"
I was conflicted.
And then my phone vibrated. "Righteous anger is understandable," she said. A Godly woman and mother and grandmother to all she meets; God must've been stirring in her heart. She didn't know what had just happened, she was simply obedient to God as His messenger.
And just like that, I was set free from the conflict, comforted by the Mighty Counselor. My anger was, and is, righteous. It will fuel me as I continue pushing for justice and community safety.
I will not be intimidated or soothed into being anything but angry. I will not feel guilty or conflicted. I will do everything I have to do to be sure there is justice and that all responsible parties will be held accountable.
Righteous anger is understandable. It is useful. It is fuel.