Anger

Sometimes I will be suddenly gripped by an outsized anger, a feeling of aggrievement, of frustrated desires, of powerlessness.  Those feelings become so strong so swiftly that I am almost always taken by surprise.  I have finally learned that my best course when this red darkness is upon me is to shut my mouth and remove myself from the scene, because I know that if I speak, it will be to lash out, to accuse, to blame and criticize.  It is usually in conversation with Sweet Hubby that these flare ups happen, and even though part of me wants to lash out, feels justified - I wouldn't feel this way unless something egregious had actually been done to me, right? - another part of me, the part which remembers going through these episodes so many times in the past, wants to protect SH from the barbs and shivs sticking out of my soul.  

Such an episode occurred two nights ago.  Man oh man, I really wanted the relief of venting and blaming.  But no, I didn't want that at all.  (Oh thank the Great Whatever for the wisdom which occasionally accompanies aging.)  The goddess prevailed over the seven-year-old girl who felt she had to fight for her life.  I went silent and took myself into the bedroom to read.  I figured if there were actually some problem, if  some slight injury had actually been inflicted upon me, it would be better discerned and addressed at a cooler time.

This side of me is pure Dad.  I think he probably had these surges of inchoate anger more often than he was ever able to address verbally.  His jaw would clench and toxins sometimes hissed out of him almost silently.  As a child, I couldn't understand why had had gone dark and glowering, and of course I went through a period of believing his torment to be my fault.  Gradually I came to see that he was battling inner demons, battles for which he had no vocabulary and few tools.  Because he couldn't articulate his inner world, I have never felt as though I knew him very well.  Seeing some of the same rages in my own life has given me more compassion for him.  I'm sure that, like me, he didn't want to scare or alienate the people he loved.  He just couldn't help himself.

Like Dad, I have an enormously generous and loving partner.  When SH came to bed that recent night, he lay close enough that I could have his affection if I wanted it, even though I stiffly rebuffed his slightest touch.  He didn't get huffy, didn't try to make me talk, didn't storm out, but simply asked if I wanted him to sleep in the guest room.  I managed to give him permission to stay; that was about all I trusted myself to say.  So we lay there, both of us hoping for the relief of sleep.  I don't know what he was thinking, but in my mind, silently, over and over, I was saying "Please don't die while I'm being a bitch, please don't die while I'm being a bitch."  

The next morning, I was predictably softened and apologetic and he was predictably kind and loving, as I knew he would be, and we were closer than ever all that day.  How lucky am I?