Anger destroys her
NS October 16th, 2007
Hello. My name is Noble Savage and I have an anger problem.
On days like today, when indescribable rage rises in my chest like a fist, punching its way through my rational, sensitive and usually positive self, I feel like such a failure. On days like today I am a shitty mother, one who yells at her child for no reason other than just wanting to be left alone. On days like today, I hold my baby and rock her in my lap, tears streaming down both of our faces as I breathe her in, kiss her head and tell her “Mama’s sorry, she didn’t mean to yell and be horrible.” On days like today, I am scared of my anger and where it came from. I am even more scared of where it could lead.
I was not physically abused, nor did I ever witness it. But I did inherit my mother’s temper (maybe all stressed out mothers’ tempers?) and it’s scary how quickly I can go from Zen to Boiling in ten seconds flat. What do I have to be angry about? There are millions and millions of people way worse off than me, with far greater problems and stresses. I feel like such a pathetic loser when I whine about trying to juggle the cleaning with the painting and the kiddo with the husband and the errands with my writing. Maybe I should tape up a picture of a refugee in Darfur to my fridge so I can get some perspective.
I have become that which I despise — a young, white, middle-class housewife who is angry that all of her perfect little dreams haven’t worked out yet, or maybe never will. All I would need to complete the cliche is to start drinking gin (neat, with a twist) at noon while still in my slippers and have an affair with the plumber.
I know many people don’t like to talk about their anger, especially mothers, because we think it should be so easy to make it dissolve, like putting Alza Seltzer into a glass of water and hey presto! your anger hangover is gone, absolved as if by a priest. Perhaps though, for an atheist like me in the modern world, a blog post serves as a better confessional than any church could provide. This is my shelter, my touchstone. When I sit down to ‘confess’, I touch the keys in reverence and reflection, much like I imagine a devout old woman runs her hands over knots of wood in familiar pews, the skin on her palms as thin as paper, as she kneels in genuflection.
But do I write this for selfish reasons, to be told I’m ‘normal’ and that it’s okay to be angry? That everyone does it and I shouldn’t be so hard on myself? Because I don’t want that. I just want to know how to make it stop. I need it to be better for my daughter. It has to be better. I refuse to accept anything less.
This is the dark side of motherhood that nobody talks about. This is my dark side and I will talk about it because without that, I have no hope of overcoming it.
