And what's more, people who successfully mediated both worlds -- the internal and the external -- seem uniformly left behind even when they contribute greatly: Gloria Steinem, who saved the world and created the one we live in, is barely a footnote to the new bunch. Which is gross, but supports the point: To create change, you have to be willing to be sacrificed to that change and that's super sad, but it's a closed sum. Martyrs are lunatics, because you would have to be. You never have a place in the Utopia you are creating.
And it all starts here: With the irresistible force finally meeting the immovable object. Norma can run the Bates Motel, she said, because she said so. And when Norman reminded her last week of her out-clause, she wouldn't take that either: Her most Antigone moment was outside that city dump when she clarified what happened for him, in the most determinedly Hester Prynne way: It was not self-defense, and she won't take the easy way out, because what is going on inside Norma Bates is always more important than what the real world is up to, which is a universal quality of saints (and of) crazy people: She killed the shit out of him and it was glorious.
But some objects are immovable. So now that you're in the cage, what do you do? Admitting things are past the point of no return is not an option, because that retroactively destroys your entire deal. Acknowledging the easy way out would dissolve it just as much. It's not that she's doubling down or entrenching -- and even now, separated from her, Norman too -- so much as she is hardening into diamond.
The what of her innocence is more important than the how -- or the why -- and either way she can't talk about it because of what engendered it: When Keith laughed at her for getting raped, he upset the balance of the universe, and he needed to die. To call this self-defense would tip it back over, because it means he's right: He got her. They won. Her penetration of Keith Summers becomes a pale shadow of his penetration of her, and all the trouble it created; it becomes useless, tit for tat, just another woman striking back at a world that will continue to laugh at her.
She wasn't just turning a rape into a murder: She was turning rape into murder. It wasn't self-defense, it was self-preservation.
Norman texts Bradley -- off the same text chain as last week's "I'm outside your house" -- and gets no response. While he remembers what it was like, he gets a text and grins, but it's not Bradley, Bradley's nowhere: Norma's bail is posted and she'll be out come morning. Which is nice, but tough for a gear-switch: The two women his body now knows best are both hidden and we have no way of what's going on with them, and Norman can't be blamed for still, 23.75 hours later, being consumed with both of those black box mysteries or overlooking old Emma altogether.