Rage
I don’t do well with anger.
I come from a family where people don’t fight–or at least they fight very little. My parents rarely argued–and honestly, the few time they did, it totally freaked me out. I never had a shouting match with my parents, or even slammed a door at them. I’m essentially nonconfrontational, and I’m not entirely sure, deep down, that if you yell at me you might stop loving me.
My husband and I don’t fight, either. Our arguments are conducted in total silence, each of us carrying on lengthy spats entirely in our own heads. This strategy is not particularly successful in resolving disputes, although it means we rarely say things to each in other anger. Not that my husband doesn’t have a temper–he can slam things with magnificent force. But usually this sort of anger comes out in reaction to a traffic ticket or a broken computer or, god help us all, lost keys, and is not, thankfully, directed at me. Sometimes when we’re most angry with each other we become utterly silent. We don’t slam cabinet doors–we close them v e r y c a r e f u l l y.
My reaction to my own anger is often bewilderment. What am I supposed to do with this emotion? How am I supposed to channel this? I do best when I can direct anger into something constructive–an email, a phone call, a campaign. Anger that I cannot manage exhausts me, even frightens me. Anger at another human being, particularly anger against someone I love and whose relationship I treasure, makes me feel weak and helpless.
All of this sits heavy in my stomach right now, alone in the living room, as my husband does the dishes as part of his attempt to cool off, and my son lies crying in his bed in the next room.
MapKid’s rages terrify me. They infuriate me. They call forth surges of pity at his complete helplessness in the face of his own overpowering emotions. They wipe out all pity in overwhelming fury.
MapKid’s rages can come out of nowhere. Sometimes I see them coming and can try to fend them off. Other times, he’s just . . . cranky. And cranky can transform without warning into rage.
I don’t even know how it started this evening–and it doesn’t really matter. He stomped around for a while, cranky about the pasta I put on his plate for dinner, annoyed about something to do with his Garmin. Things came to a head over reading. He didn’t want to read his book. I find this particular point of contention ridiculous since we’ve talked a bajillion times about how he needs to read a book every day for his summer homework, we’ve gone to the library to pick out the books, and we’ve been dutifully reading every evening. How can he act surprised and outraged when I then pull out a book?
During our reading, he sprawled his legs across the book so he couldn’t read the words. Every two or three pages he collapsed sideways and and heaved a huge sigh. He picked up everything within reach on the sofa and fiddled with it until I took it away. He obsessed over the number of pages in the book and, when I refused to let him count them, he thrashed around and shrieked.
We did bedtime immediately afterwards. He threw things–we followed the same protocol we’ve done about misbehavior at bedtime for years and took away one of the two bedtime books. He slammed a door and we took away the second book. My husband tried to tell him goodnight and he screamed. My husband left the room.
He sat on the bed and his face crumpled into tears. He crawled across the bed to me and sobbed on my chest. I tried to put my arms around him and he shouted and pushed me away. He sobbed again and threw his arms around me. I held him, but then he grabbed a teddy bear and flung it across the room.
His own anger had him completely at odds with himself. He loved me and wanted my comfort at the same time he hated me and wanted to lash out.
He’s in bed now. He got up once to go to the bathroom, stalking and stomping through the living room like an undersized teenager.
I have a stack of books on the table in front of me on dealing with rages and tantrums. None of them, so far at least, have helped. I try to stay calm, remain at peace, contain my own anger. Usually, I succeed. Sometimes, I fail. I hate it when I lose my cool and shout back. I hate myself when I’m the one who slams the door. I hate my own rage.
I kept it together tonight. I suppose that gives me a small sense of satisfaction. Not much.
What am I supposed to do?
How do I teach him to control this anger? It’s one thing to rage at me–but what if he’s at school? Church? A public park? What if he’s older, stronger? What if he hurts someone?
How do we survive his rage unscarred? I find it amazing we’ve made it seven years without losing any of the glass in the french doors to his room. No cats have been harmed in the raising of this child–so far. I can’t say the same for various toys flung across the room. I can’t say the same for my presence of mind. Some things, once said, once done, cannot be taken back. What will he say? What will I say? What will we both remember for years to come?
I wonder, sometimes, is it a blessing that I’m so unfamiliar with anger? I can usually keep going without reacting in kind–is that a good thing? Or would it be better if I did get more angry? If it I did lose it a little more often? Would I put up with less? Or would it be disastrous for him to confront anger similar to his own in an adult?
The house is now quiet. MapKid’s asleep. The dishes are done and my husband is watching TV. The blog post is almost done. My anger has drained away, leaving me weak and tired.
Let’s hope when tomorrow comes the anger will have melted away from my house, and the day will find us at peace.